The Man With No Heart
by agirlwithkaleidoscopeyes
Summary: John and Sherlock have been living quietly for months due to a lack of cases and their friendship has become increasingly strained because of it. But when John finds Mia, a young girl, in Baker Street one day their lives suddenly become incredibly chaotic once again - Moriarty, presumed dead for a whole year by Sherlock, is inexplicably but undeniably very much alive...Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Mia**

Dusk had fallen. The sky was blue. Deep blue. My vision was blurred but I desperately held onto the fragmented pieces of sky I could see through the rooftops above wanting to find stars; wanting to find something beautiful to hold onto.  
I was concious now. I could breathe. I had been falling in and out of broken dreams for some time. I was not exactly sure of how many days had passed or even if days had passed at all. For all I knew, it could have been mere hours ago that I managed to crawl into this darkened alleyway to wait for my heart to stop beating quite so hard.  
I wanted to fall asleep again to forget about everything that happened. Asleep, I could pretend. Forget. Awake, I could not escape the vivid memories that haunted me. I already deemed them as memories because I knew that no matter what happened and no matter how much time passed, I would never be able to forget them. It was his eyes that haunted me. They had reminded me of black holes...that was all I could think as he watched my own frightened eyes and savoured my fear. Black holes. Hollow and empty. Devoid of humanity. He had smiled as he had held the blade to my neck. Smiled. I had trembled and cried out but all he did was smile...  
But he was gone now. I'd escaped. He was gone, I had to tell myself that. For now.  
I brought myself to my knees, choking between coughs. I had run for so long, so far, that now my lungs felt as if they could collapse in on themselves from exhaustion at any moment. I'd meant to distance myself further as soon as I had slept for a while, but still I could barely move. Time had passed and he had not found me...but that did not mean he had given up.  
I stumbled into the street, the headlights from passing cars temporarily blinding me. Nobody noticed me; nobody even looked at me, and I was not sure if that filled me with relief or despair. Rain was falling, impairing my vision even further. I tried to hold onto to a face, any face at all, but every face that passed was an empty mask that conveyed no emotion. Nothing at all. I was desperate now, helpless.  
"Please...please, stop. I-I need help." I grabbed the arm of a stranger, begging them, but they shook me off angrily.  
I didn't blame them. I was nothing to them, certainly not their problem to solve. I was a crazed girl, bloody and bruised, asking for help when I was not even sure of what I wanted help for. Perhaps I just needed somebody, anyone, to care. Someone to listen. But all I saw were empty faces. Blank expressions. Hollow hearts.  
I was about to crawl back into the alleyway I had taken shelter in, when I was overwhelmed by the sense that somebody was watching me. Through my increasingly blurring vision I could see him. He was standing on the opposite side of the street on the corner. I could not make out much for the rain, only his sodden coat and the fact he was holding a slightly crumpled newspaper over his head. And he was staring straight at me.  
I wanted to run, but I couldn't move. My heart had begun to beat so hard against my ribcage, that it hurt. I knew then that he had come for me. It was not Moriarty himself, but one of his henchmen. I was so foolish to think that Moriarty himself would risk being seen in public just to find me when he could simply send one of his own associates. I had never stopped to consider that every person that passed me by had the potential to be dangerous. _Moriarty_. The name itself caused my blood to freeze. I could still remember the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the weight of his body pressed against me, the glint in his eye as he had watched me shiver.  
The rain began to fall rapidly, hitting the cobblestones like shards of glass. It soaked me through to my skin, chilling my bones. But now as his gaze intensified my heart began to beat hard against my chest, burning my blood. I looked around urgently for somewhere I could run to. He was coming now; crossing the road, apologising hurriedly to the drivers in cars whose paths he had suddenly and unexpectedly cut across. He was shouting, but the rain drowned out his voice so that I could not hear his words. I watched him, frozen, unable to move. Another angry car horn sounded causing him to temporarily take his gaze from me, distracted. I ducked into my alleyway, my lungs aching from my ragged gasps of breath. I was sure he would pass it. I prayed that he would pass it. My desperation to escape had been burnt out by fatigue.  
_Let him take me._ I closed my eyes. _I can't run anymore._

**John**

It had been a long day. Sherlock had been in a particularly intolerable mood due to a severe withdrawl of nicotine and lack of any "lucrative" cases. He had ordered me to buy some nicotine patches and stay far away from the flat for as long as I could in order to give him some time alone. To think.  
I had been too weary to argue and had been standing outside 221B for an inordinate amount of time debating what to do with myself. I could always see Louise. It was seven o'clock on a Thursday night. Our time spent together was restricted to weekends and "special occasions" due to my demanding work with Sherlock and her working hours. She worked mornings on Thursdays which meant that I could see her, but we had not been speaking for a while. Six days, to be exact. I sighed. Sherlock's fault again. I'd been forced to abandon our dinner plans on Saturday after receiving a text from Sherlock reading that my assistance was urgently required. I'd returned that night to 221B to find Sherlock sitting smugly on the sofa having already solved the case in the twenty five minutes it had taken me to take the tube. Needless to say, Sherlock and Louise did not get on well. She had tried to engage him in conversation and attempt to get to know him but Sherlock had no time for people he considered unworthy of his time. I'd tried to explain that he was just a complicated person who found it hard to interract with other people but recently found it was becoming increasingly more difficult to defend him.  
At that moment, the sky darkened and rain began to fall. I sighed. Typical. It seemed it was not just people Sherlock had a negative effect on, but the weather also. I huddled further into my coat and tried to decide what to do. I could sit in Speedy's for half an hour to pass the time. Ask Louise to meet me there, perhaps. A plead for forgiveness could be a possible option. Or I could simply barge my way back into the flat and shout at Sherlock for being so infuriating. Neither option seemed particularly appealing.  
I gazed across the street where I noticed a shadowed figure standing in the middle of the street. Even from the distance that seperated us, I could tell that there was something not quite right. Their face was obscured by the dark grey hoodie they were wearing, but I could see that it was patterned with blue-black bruises and crusted with blood; scarlet blood that contrasted with the grey drudgery that surrounded us. The person tried to turn away but they were limping. I wasn't sure what posessed me, but I felt a sudden overwhelming urge to help them. Perhaps it was serving in the army for so long. Perhaps it was Sherlock's cold cruelty and lack of humanity towards others that caused me to become so hopelessly sympathetic. Whatever it was seemed to land me in trouble, but I neglected to remind myself of that fact as I crossed the road and took after them.  
"Wait!" I called. "I can help you."  
A car horn caused me to glance away momentarily. When I turned back, the person was gone.  
"Bloody hell!" I muttered under my breath, as more cars began to honk their horns.  
And then I saw them. Or rather, her.  
She was leaning against the wall of an alley, her hood down to reveal her long dark hair. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing heavily. I approached her cautiously, careful not to startle her.  
"You don't have to be scared." I ensured that my voice was as gentle as possible.  
Her eyes remained closed but she whimpered. I was not sure whether it was down to the pain or because I had found her. I knelt in front of her.  
"It's OK." I whispered. "I'm a doctor. I can help you."  
At last she opened her eyes. I realized that she was crying. She did not say a word, simply stared at me with wide eyes as I leant a little closer to examine her face. At first she flinched from my touch but then relaxed as she realized that it was not my intention to hurt her.  
"You have some bad cuts," I commented. "You'll probably have a few more bruises too, but you'll be okay." I swallowed. "I have a First Aid Kit - I live just across the street."  
The girl nodded slowly but still said nothing. I felt my heart lurch just looking at her. She could not have been older than seventeen. She was just a young girl. It filled me with anger to know that someone would do this to someone so young and vunerable.  
"Can you walk?" I asked.  
She nodded again and I helped her to stand. For a moment she just stared at me, her eyes alert with fear but weary from exertion.  
"Come on," I said. "Let's get inside."


	2. Chapter 2

**Mia**

I felt drained. Exhausted. But somehow I was still standing. Walking. I stumbled after the man as the rain continued to fall, drenching us both. I still had no idea if I could trust him, but right then the only option I had was to go with him.

The door was labelled "221B". The man knocked a few times, with no answer. He cursed and began fumbling through his pockets to find his keys. I stood in the doorway, shivering. I was not sure what awaited me inside. Perhaps this was all a trap. Perhaps this seemingly kind and harmless man was simply returning me to the man that had captured me in the first place. The door swung open. He gestured for me to walk ahead of him; I had no choice but to go inside.

The door closed quietly behind us, cutting me off from the outside world. The sounds of sirens and car horns and endless voices were lost to the sound of silence. It was almost as if we had suddenly been submerged underwater; the outside world seeming ever more distant and muffled. I was greeted by a long hallway and an even longer flight of stairs. The hallway smelt like a library, slightly musty as if the air was filled with the scent of unread words, but the smell was not unpleasant. The man hung his sodden coat over the bannister and gestured for me to follow him upstairs. It was then that I took the opportunity to observe him properly; I had not been able to make out much of his face when we had been out in the rain, but now I saw his face clearly. His hair was blonde, short as if he had cut it recently, and his eyes were brown. Dark brown, earnest and honest, and filled with kindness; so different to the eyes that had watched me stumble and cry out as I fell into his trap. He had a smile that set me at ease instantly, a smile that warmed and comforted me and diminished the doubts in my heart. Despite the fact he was a stranger, I somehow knew then that I could trust him. And that thought alone both relieved and frightened me.

A voice sounded out, shaking me from my thoughts.

"John? John, is that you?"

The man - John - ignored this and went to continue upstairs but a woman appeared before he could. She was old, perhaps sixty, and gasped when she caught sight of us both. She wore a floral-patterned apron and a concerned expression.

"Are you alright, dear?" She asked me. Her eyes wide with concern, much like John's when he had first caught sight of me.

I had not seen my face for some time but supposed it was a state due to the fact I was here in the first place. I suddenly felt very self concious and ultimately aware of how we must have looked together; John, in his immaculately pressed button down shirt and smart shoes and me with my torn hoodie, bloodstained face and sodden Converse trainers. She watched me with a deep kind of curiosity that only increased my discomfort. I stared at her in alarm as she examined my face. For an elderly lady she was pretty intimidating.

John cleared his throat, noticing my discomfort. "Mrs Hudson, everything is fine. I found this young lady in the street."

"What happened to you, dear?" Her eyes were wide, framed by a pair of gold spectacles.

I knew she was only trying to be kind, but her touch made me flinch.

"I..." I tried to speak, but no words came out. I had no words at all. I looked at John for help.

"She's in shock." He told her. "I need to sort her out."

She nodded. "Of course, John, of course. Well, if there's anything I can do..."

"I'll call you if needs be, Mrs Hudson." He said, almost exasperated by their whole conversation, and lead me upstairs.

I walked cautiously, afraid of what I might find. As we ascended the stairs, I heard the faint sound of music playing. Classical. It was haunting, beautiful; a piece of music I recognised but could not place where I had heard it from before. I had never particularly cared for such music before, but this music took my breath away. Before I could open the door John stopped abruptly, causing me to halt just behind him.

"Before we go in, I need to warn you. I live with a roomate. He's a little...unusual. He doesn't really like people. Just try not to listen to anything he says."

"Um...oh-okay." I felt my cheeks flush as I stumbled over my words, but he smiled at me and I no longer felt so uneased as he opened the door and gestured me to follow him inside.

The room was cluttered with shelves taken up by books and various other objects. It was very dark, the only light offered being the amber glow of a streetlamp outside dimmed considerably by the curtain drawn across the window. There was no television, not that I minded. I rarely watched television but found it odd that they did not. I searched the room for a vinyl player, to find the source of the music, but found nothing. In the middle of the room was a large green armchair that appeared to be quite comfortable. Just looking at it made me want to curl up and fall sleep again, but I forced myself to look back to where his roommate stood. His back was turned so I could not see his face. All I could observe about him was that he was tall, very tall. With a thick mass of dark curly hair. From this angle he did not look like the intimidating monster I had percieved him to be from John's warning. He seemed...normal. And then I noticed the violin in his hands. _He_ had been playing that music, the music that had made my heart light up.

"Ah, John, at last. Only a mere two hours ago that I asked you to go out and get me those nicotine patches. Oh well. Better late than never I suppose. I heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs, so clearly you've brought a client."

His voice was very deep but he was well spoken, this fact alone causing me to come to the conclusion that he was intelligent. There was something about his posture that radiated the kind of self-assured confidence I would and could never posess. He was so different to John and I had not even seen his face yet. Still, he did not turn around. I felt John stiffen beside me.

"This isn't a client, Sherlock. This is..." He bit his lip and turned to me for help.

"Mia." I choked out, my breath catching in my throat.

"This is Mia." John said, loudly.

At last the man turned and stared. His face was illuminated in the glow of the streetlamp outside. He gazed at me very intently, as if he was painting or sketching me. I stared down at the floor, feeling uncomfortable.

"What happened to her face?" He asked, bluntly.

John sighed. "Sherlock, if you could please be a bit more sympathetic. She's obviously been through quite an ordeal..."

Sherlock

. An unusual name. I knew it from somewhere but my head was clouded and I couldn't think properly.

"I asked what happened," He said, dryly. "Is that not sympathetic?"

"You're impossible." John muttered, and withdrew his First Aid kit from a briefcase lying on the table. He gestured for me to sit down.

"Besides, I don't even need to ask. I can already tell."

I sat down. John groaned.

"No, Sherlock, please."

The man, Sherlock, continued anyway.

"Dried blood, showing that the cuts were made a while ago. Judging from the bruising, I'd say at least a day. She hasn't been home to clean herself up, therefore I'd say she's still suffering from shock. Or perhaps she doesn't have a home to go to. There are marks on her hands from where someone has tried to hold her down...mugging. She's been mugged." He smiled, satisfied with his conclusion.

I stared at him, wordlessly. John rolled his eyes as he began to clean the cuts on my face with what I supposed to be an antiseptic lotion.

"Pay no attention." He whispered.

Sherlock, already bored, turned away from us and picked up his violin to begin playing again. My hands began to tremble with anger. I couldn't believe his insensitivity, his blunt arrogance. The fact he thought he knew so well what had happened when really he couldn't even begin to know.

"Actually," I called out, making him stand still. "I wasn't mugged."

John stopped tending to the cuts on my face, surprised at the fact I had spoken out. Sherlock turned to face me again. I savoured the look of disbelief that flooded across his face.

"You're lying." He said. His voice was dark, but I did not care as he had finally addressed me personally rather than referring to me as "she" or "her".

"I wasn't mugged, I was kidnapped." I said, surprised at the fact my voice did not waver or stumble over the words. "A man took me; he threatened me. When I wouldn't give him what he wanted, he hurt me."

Silence fell. A deep silence that filled the room and did not leave room for much else. He never did take his eyes from mine.

"But you were right about one thing," I said, bitterly. "The marks on my hands. Those are from where he held me down."

A moment passed. The dark expression on his face slipped away and I thought perhaps he was going to utter an apology. But instead he did quite the opposite.

"_Kidnapped_!" He exclaimed and banged the glass of the window in frustration. "I should have known."

John groaned, which caused Sherlock to turn to him as if he had only just remembered that he was there.

"Where are the nicotine patches I asked you for?" He asked, suspiciously.

"I clearly had other things on my mind, Sherlock." John said, bluntly, gesturing towards me.

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, John. You're really too sensitive for your own good. Your incomptence is also, quite frankly, irritating. I sent you out for nicotine patches; I did not ask you to return with a street urchin."

"Street urchin?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You really have no idea."

"Oh believe me, I do." He said. The darkness returned in his voice; it seemed he was enraged by the fact I dared to argue with him. He took a few steps closer towards me, ignoring John's warning of: "_Don't_, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood very close to me, closer than John or Mrs Hudson had ever stood, and never once took his gaze from my face. I noticed then that his eyes were a strange colour; not quite green and not quite blue and not quite silver but a colour that lay somewhere inbetween all of those. Despite the fact I disliked him, I couldn't help but think they were possibly the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

"Just by looking at you, I know you very well." He said, the confidence in his voice unmistakable. "You're still a teenager. Sixteen, seventeen perhaps. Probably found yourself pregnant at a young age but you had no hope at all at raising a child so you had an abortion that perhaps now you find yourself regretting. Your mother's hopeless; father left a long time ago. You don't have a job. You live off the state and choose not to bother earning your own living. You're a hopless drug addict. The person that smacked you about...a crack dealer or a jealous boyfriend. You're under the pathetic impression that one day he's going to _change_." His tone is mocking. He picked me apart and let the fragments shatter around us. I stared up at him, silently, and awaited his final conclusion. "You're just a little girl who lost herself, nothing more than a cliche."

"_Sherlock_!" John cried out.

The pain of the cuts and bruises on my face was nothing compared to the way my heart fell and my whole body seemed to caved in on itself. I barely knew him, but he somehow had the ability to make me want to die. His words were not even true. I had never been pregnant. I had never had an abortion. I didn't live off the state. I didn't take drugs. I didn't even drink. But that didn't matter because that was what he thought of me. There was no point correcting him. I felt drained. Emotionally and physically. I pulled away from John, not wanting to be in the room any longer.

"I should never have come here." I said, quietly, despite the fact my thoughts were screaming.

I walked out of the room and had descended the majority of the stairs when John caught my arm and tried to stop me. "Mia, don't go. He doesn't mean it...he doesn't realize he's being cruel. He doesn't know how to be around people. He doesn't know how to be a normal human being."

There were tears in my eyes; concern and sympathy in his. He had been so kind to me but I feared that he thought the same of me as Sherlock. _I need to get out. I have to get out._

"Well maybe he's right." I spat. "Maybe I'm just a messed up street urchin that got slapped around by my drug dealing boyfriend. Whatever I am, you don't need to worry about me. I'm not your concern."

He called after me, but my head was full and I could no longer register what he was saying.

"Just leave me alone, John." I said, quietly. "I didn't ask you to look after me and I certainly don't need you to."

I turned away from him so that I could not see the hurt in his eyes. The lady - Mrs Hudson - called out but I walked out and closed the door behind me, not wanting to hear what she had to say. The cold night air bit my skin as soon as I stepped out onto the street. I huddled closer into my hoodie and tried to decide what to do. It was late. I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

A group of drunken scathely clothed girls passed me, giggling and slurring. They stared at me and laughed. I flushed and despite the fact they were probably morons, their slurred comments hurt. I remembered Sherlock's words:

You're just a little girl who lost herself. Nothing more than a cliche.

Who was he anyway? And how was it possible for a person to be so arrogant?

I was about to walk in the opposite direction when a red sign caught my eye. Speedy's. A cafe. I glanced at it wearily. It was right next to 221B but...what other choice did I have?

When I entered the cafe, a bell rang announcing my arrival. It was deserted, chairs stacked up onto tables emphasising the fact that there was nobody there to sit on them. A middle-aged woman sitting at the counter looked up, surprised.

"I'm sorry, we're closed. I forgot to turn the sign around."

I nodded, slowly. For no reason at all I felt myself begin to cry. It had been such a strange day and I was so tired and I could no longer cope with it. I had nowhere to go. I felt so lost. I was about to turn, when her voice stopped me.

"Are you alright? You seem upset, love."

I tried to muster a smile. "I'm fine."

She stared at me, scepticly. "Look I wouldn't usually do this, but I suppose I could make you a cup of tea if you'd like. On the house. You can stay in here for a while, keep out of the rain."

"Thank you." I whispered, through my tears. Her kindness was overwhelming, contrasting to Sherlock's bleak cruelty. "Thank you so much."

**Sherlock**

"I can't believe you did that!" John roared, for precisely the fifth time.

I examined the notes of the case file Mycroft had so kindly given me. A triple murder. Clean shot wounds to the head. Two witnesses. _Boring_.

"Oh, John, get over it. You should be thanking me for the fact I saved you from having to commit to yet another charity case."

I pretended to study the notes laid out on the coffee table in front of me, but I wasn't really concentrating. I had no intention of telling John that a tiny, microscopic fragment of me felt _slightly_ guilty about the things I had said to the girl. I'd seen the way people had reacted before to my smart remarks and observations but nobody had ever been quite so...affected. It was the way she had looked at me. Those eyes...wide with hurt. I forced the thought away. I had never cared about feelings before, I did not wish to care about them now.

"She wasn't a charity case, Sherlock, she was a girl who needed my help. Our help." His eyes flashed with indignance.

"Don't try and drag me into this." I snapped. "I have no interest in helping you with your pathetic attempts at charity, John. You don't need to do this. You served four years in the army. You have paid your debt to society if that is what you're so concerned about..."

"Stop," He said, angrily. "Just stop. You don't know anything about me, Sherlock. You think you know everything but you don't. You really, really don't."

I opened my mouth to correct him. Just from looking at him I could tell what he had eaten for lunch that day and the fact he was concerned about his sister and had been trying to get in touch with her and the fact he had been debating whether or not to call his so-called girlfriend and arrange a dinner date for this evening...I could tell so many things about him. But I didn't tell him that. Even I knew that this was no time to argue with him.

"I wanted to help her." He said, quietly, all traces of anger from his voice gone.

"I..."

He looked at me, expectantly. "Well?"

I swallowed.

"You just can't do it, can you?" He exclaimed. "You just can't bloody apologise. Two words, Sherlock, _I'm sorry_."

I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But all I could do was sigh. He was right - I couldn't do it. Apologising, to me, had just always seemed like a sign of weakness. And I did not ever wish to look weak.

"Brilliant." He said, sarcastically. "Well, I'm going to go out and look for Mia not that you care. Don't wait up."

"John, wait -" I called after him, but the door slammed so hard behind him that it drowned my voice out.

I stared at the empty space where he had stood. I had dealt with John's tantrums many times, but somehow now I felt guilt tug at my insides. I was not sure what was wrong with me. This sudden guilt at John's unreasoned anger, aswell as the guilt I felt for what I had said to the girl he had wanted to help. It was ironic how I was so skilled at reading other people and yet so helpless when it came to reading myself.

**John**

It was nine o'clock now, possibly even later. Baker Street was emptier than it had been now that rush hour was coming to an end. But there was no sign of Mia. I checked the alleyway she had hidden in, but found nothing but empty dustbins and a broken streetlamp. I had been beginning to think that it was hopeless, searching for her, when my phone rang. The number was blocked.

"Hello?" I answered, cautiously.

"Smiley's." The familiar voice said, so matter of fact that it made my blood boil.

"What?" I snapped.

"Smiley's, John." Sherlock said, his voice calm despite my annoyance. "She's in Smiley's."

"How the hell would you -" I stopped myself, knowing that I would never truly come to understand Sherlock's extraordinary - aswell as incredibly infuriating - talent. "Never mind. I'll look there."

I ended the call and headed straight over to the cafe. I felt an instant sense of annoyance at the fact I had not had the inititative to look there when it was so close to 221B. But it diminished quickly. It didn't matter. I had never doubted Sherlock's excellence when it came to deductions and therefore knew that Mia would be safe. And that was all that mattered.

I pushed open the door to Smiley's, ignoring the "Closed" sign on the door, surprised at the prospect of finding it unlocked. Mia was sitting at the counter, a cup of untouched tea next to her. Maggie, the owner, fixed me with a black look. Maggie was a fairly large woman with dark hair and constantly flushed cheeks. She did not like Sherlock very much and therefore did like me, purely because of our association. We sat in Smiley's cafe a lot and Sherlock's irrational behaviour both annoyed and unsettled her, as it did to most people.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She wrinkled her nose and gestured to the door that had just closed behind me. "Didn't you see the sign? We're closed."

I glanced at Mia. She said nothing but did not take her eyes from mine. Maggie had hung up the hoodie she had been wearing. She wore a thin white vest, sodden through, and she was shivering. Her face was washed, face patterned with bruises, and in the dim light of the cafe she somehow seemed to look even more vunerable than she had before I had attended to her wounds. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent; the veins under the pale of her arms prominent, sea green, reminding me of highway maps or constellations. She was thin, painfully thin. I watched the curve of her collarbone rise and fall with every exhale of breath. Her eyes were dark, tinted with a deep sadness that somehow looked as if it had lived there forever. Despite the bruises and the sad expression on her face and the fact she was only sixteen, I could not help but observe that she was beautiful. Achingly beautiful.

I shook my head, as if to shake my thoughts away, and focused my gaze back to Maggie.

"You seem to be accepting customers anyway." I said, clearing my throat.

"This particular customer was an exception." Maggie said, irritably. "She was a young girl that needed my help."

"She needs my help." I corrected her.

Her eyes flashed with indignance. "Mr Watson, I hardly think that you and your so-called partner Mr Holmes will be able to attend to the needs of another human being when you can barely take care of yourselves."

"Maggie, I understand that you don't particularly get on well with Sherlock..."

She snorted, interrupting me. "Understatement of the century."

"...but I served many years in the army as a doctor looking after people." I continued. "If Mia will be safe with anyone, it will be with me. Besides, haven't you got a family to go home to?"

She scoffed but said nothing more. Even Maggie, despite her reluctance to agree, knew that it was true.

"I'll call the police if I hear anything remotely strange," She threatened, in what she supposed to be her most intimidating of voices. "God help me, John Watson, do not give me an excuse to get you and that irritating friend of yours arrested."

I smiled at her as politely as I could. "Wouldn't dream of it, Maggie. Would you be able to give Mia and I some time alone to talk?"

She snorted but left us alone anyhow, mumbling an excuse about "needing to re-fill the coffee machine anyway". When I glanced back at Mia, her gaze was elsewhere. I bit my lip.

"I'm sorry about Sherlock." I said, quietly. "I know you probably think he's an idiot, most people do. Even I do half the time. If we weren't friends I'd probably hate him. But don't take his stupid deductions and observations to heart. He doesn't realise that he's being insensitive."

Finally, her eyes met mine again and she smiled. A small, slight smile. But a smile all the same.

"It's fine." She whispered. She stared down at her hands. "I'm sorry about...what I said. I didn't mean to be so ungrateful. I appreciate you helping me."

"You don't need to apologise. You were upset, it was understandable under the circumstances." I paused for a moment before speaking again. "Look, I'm not going to ask you to tell me what happened to you..." Instantly her eyes darkened. "...If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. All I'm going to ask is whether you would like to stay for a while. I don't know if you have a home to go to or not, but it's late now so you can at least just stay for tonight if not for a few days to sort something out."

"No." Her tone was forceful. "No. I can't...I can't ask you to do that."

She began tracing patterns into the spilt grains of sugar on the counter. I watched her intently for a moment, before replying.

"But you're not asking," I said, matter of factly. "I am."

She mustered a vague smile but said nothing.

"At least stay tonight." I said, softly.

It was strange, but there was a part of me that was urgent for her to stay. I was not sure why but I felt a fondness towards her, a fondness that made me want to take care of her. Perhaps it was the guilt I felt at Sherlock's cruel words, or even perhaps because I wanted to "pay off my debt to society" but deep down I knew that neither of those were the real reasons. She had ignited a small spark, a spark that both intrigued and unsettled me. I did not delve deeper into its real meaning, at least not now. Instead I concentrated on convincing her to stay.

"Stay." I said.

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped, defeated. She was too weary to argue. Even she knew that she couldn't possibly spend another night out on the streets.

"No good?" I asked, before she could answer, gesturing towards the cup of tea she had barely touched.

She shook her head.

"Never is, Maggie's tea." I said.

"Oi!" Maggie called from the kitchen, evidently having been eavesdropping on the entire conversation.

We smiled at one another.

"Come on." I said, getting up from where we had both been sitting. "Let's go."

Mia thanked Maggie and we walked out onto Baker Street together, the night sky filled with stars.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: I'm going away for a week so won't be updating this for a while. Please keep reviewing, I really appreciate the feedback!

**Sherlock**

"Back so soon?" I called, sarcastically, as soon as I heard the sets of footsteps on the stairs.

John pushed open the door and glanced at me irritably. So he was still angry with me, despite my indespensable help in finding what he had been looking for. Typical. The girl stood cautiously in the doorway, close behind him as if careful not to leave his side. She could barely even look at me even as I watched her intently; I kept waiting for her eyes to meet mine but they remained elsewhere entirely.

"I've invited Mia to stay with us for a while." John announced and stared straight at me, challenging me to object.

I wanted to object - I wanted to voice my opinion there and then. But I couldn't. I couldn't risk pushing John away again. Lately we had been arguing a lot more. True, it was mostly my own fault. But I did not want to risk John moving out and leaving me on my own entirely. He played an important part in my cases, despite the fact I constantly suggested otherwise.

"Fine." I said, blankly, as if I did not care at all. I picked up Mycroft's case file, the file I had been unsuccessfuly trying to come to a conclusion about for an hour, and pretended to read it despite the fact I was already aware of its contents.

"Fine." John repeated, in disbelief. "You don't mind?"

"Why should I mind?" I asked, my voice sounding bored. "It makes no difference to me."

"Really?" He questioned, still unable to come to terms with the fact I was being so accepting.

"Really." I muttered. "Now will you please stop talking so that I can continue solving this case?"

"Of course." He said, suddenly and annoyingly extremely willing to return to his usual polite self. He gestured for the girl to follow him to his room.

The girl - Mia - stood in the doorway for a moment longer, watching me. Her eyes were very dark. Intense. When they met mine, I had to swallow and look away. Not many people, in fact no one, had ever had the ability to make me feel uncomfortable. I had met numerous politicians, countless so-called "famous" people, and yet she, this seventeen year old girl that meant absolutely nothing to me, had the ability to do so. There was something about her that struck me familiar though I could not think what. She smiled at me, a faint smile, as she turned to follow John. I began to rack my mind for something - anything - that could possibly explain where I remembered her from.

Mia

John's bedroom was filled with light. It contrasted with the darkness that seemed to infiltrate every inch of the flat. It was a small room, but cosey nonetheless, and very simple. A bed, a window, a chest of drawers and a canvas on the wall of some peony flowers that I supposed to be a decorative touch courtesy of Mrs Hudson rather than John.

"Well," John said, with a smile. "This is it. It's not much, but the bed's pretty comfortable."

"But where will you sleep?" I asked.

"The sofa probably." He said. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson will have some extra cushions somewhere."

I bit my lip. "I can't expect you to move out of your room for me. I should have the sofa."

"Of course you shouldn't, you're the guest." He said, and fixed me with a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine. You deserve a good night's sleep after what you've been through."

Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, unsure of whether to come in. It seemed she thought she might be interrupting something.

"I asked Mrs Hudson to lend you something to sleep in." John explained, gesturing for her to come in.

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at both of us and laid out a pair of pyjamas on the bed.

"I haven't worn those in years," She said, absent-mindely, as if the pyjamas held some kind of nostalgic meaning for her. "Not since I was sixteen, actually..." Her voice trailed off as she stared longingly at them.

John raised his eyebrows. She shook her head, as if shaking her thoughts away.

"But they'll fit, of course, skinny thing like you." Her laugh was tinkling, as if it should have belonged to a fairy or an elve, and ultimately comforting. When she left, her laughter fading into just a distant echo, the room almost felt empty.

"Well," John said, breaking me from my thoughts. "I suppose I should let you get some sleep, you're probably exhausted. I'll...um, see you in the morning."

"Wait." He had turned to leave, but my voice stopped him. When his eyes met mine again, I swallowed. "Thank you."

His eyes flickered with confusion.

"For what?" He asked.

"For being a genuinely nice person and helping me when nobody else did." I said, quietly.

"It's nothing." Was all he said.

And with a smile, he left the room.

**John**

Sherlock did not even glance up from his case file as I closed the door behind me. I still felt a strange sort of contentness, having found Mia and having kept her safe, and I did not want to lose it as a result of Sherlock's stubborness.

"There's got to be something...there's always something..." He muttered under his breath.

I paused for a moment, waiting for him to glance up from his paperwork and acknowledge me but he remained still, seemingly oblivious that I was even in the room.

I cleared my throat loudly. "Sherlock."

His eyes darted in my direction and he offered me an annoyed glance before returning back to his case file. I was accustomed to his behaviour; I had known him for so long and consequently knew his infuriating character traits only too well but still his actions - or rather, lack of them - irritated me. I walked over to where he was slumped in the armchair, snatched the case file from him and slammed it down on the coffee table. All the while his stare remained perfectly calm, resembling nothing more than a blank mask; devoid of emotion.

"I understand you have anger issues, John, but I hardly think that is a valid excuse to take them out on Mrs Hudson's furniture." He said, dryly, and I could tell beneath his cool exterior that he was also angry.

"I don't have anger issues, Sherlock, I'm just tired." I said, my voice sounding weary with the words. "I'm tired of the way you treat people...the way you treat me."

An amused smile crept across his lips. "Oh poor John. Have I been mean to you? Should I ask Mrs Hudson to give me a slap on the wrist to compensate for the pain I've caused?"

"I'm serious, Sherlock!" I yelled, the volume of my voice surprising the both of us.

The sarcastic smile gradually wore off his lips as we succumbed to silence. For a moment I could hear nothing but the muffled sound of Mrs Hudson's television downstairs and the distant sounds of voices and sirens from the outside world. Sherlock stared at me and said nothing. Just waited. I clenched my fists together to try and prevent myself from punching the wall with my fist.

"If you weren't happy about having Mia to stay, you should have said something." I said quietly, despite the frustration I felt.

"Did I really have a choice in the matter?" He said and pretended to think for a moment. "No."

"Of course you had a choice, you live here too." I said, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears.

"No, John," His voice was weary, drained of its usual dry humour and sarcasm. "You wanted to help her. Despite what you think, I don't always wish to go against you. I wasn't happy about having her here, and I'm still not. That's not going to change. She's a random girl you found on the streets, bruised and bloody, with some story about being kidnapped by a mysterious man and she means that you will have to sleep on the sofa for an indefinite amount of time...but it's your choice, not mine."

I sighed. "I know it's my choice. And I know you don't trust her, I don't expect you to. But I do. And I want to keep her safe."

Something in my expression must have changed, altered somewhat, because something flickered across his eyes. Like a shooting star it burnt brightly and then exploded into the empty atmosphere, leaving nothing but a knowing look in his eyes.

I frowned. "What?"

Another half smile found its way onto his lips, infuriating me further.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I said again when he did not reply.

"It's nothing, John." He said, trying to shake me off, but I had known him for long another to decipher when something was "_nothing_" and when it was important.

"No, tell me. You're hiding something. And you have that infuriating smug look on your face. I can tell, Sherlock, so just _tell me_."

"I just think that perhaps you feel something a little more for the girl than just plain..._compassion_." He said, innocently, picking up Mycroft's case file again and pretending to read it.

Instantly, I felt my heart begin to strain around my ribcage and hot blood rush to my cheeks.

"What? You think I _feel _something for her?" I exclaimed, my mouth open in disbelief.

"Yes," He said, licking the tip of his finger to turn a page. "As a matter of fact, I do."

I narrowed my eyes. "That's preposterous, absolutely preposterous. In fact, it's bullshit."

Another knowing smile. I longed to snatch the file out of his hands and tear it into pieces but knew that Mycroft would not be very happy with me if I did so. He continued to pretend to read, an innocent expression that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Fine." I said, angrily. "Alright. And why do you think that?"

He gave an exaggerated sigh and finally placed the case file back on the coffee table. "Oh, John, isn't it obvious?"

"Evidently not." I said, my voice cold.

He sighed again, as if my apparent explicit emotions exhausted him. "Well, firstly there's the fact that you are incredibly defensive about the girl despite barely knowing her. Your pupils dilate whenever you speak about her; you also blush like a schoolgirl whenever she's anywhere near you. You also swore when I suggested you had feelings for her. People only swear when they're truly passionate about something, for example: passionate about hiding their true feelings. Take all of that into consideration, aswell as the fact your face fell as soon as you supposedly "accepted" the fact I do not trust her, and I'd say that it's a very well-reasoned deduction." He paused for a moment, staring into my eyes as my whole body grew numb. "You care what I think because you want me to like her. And you want me to like her and accept her because you have feelings for her. So please stop wasting my time with your hopeless denial."

"No." I shook my head, angrily. "You're wrong. You spend so much time analysing people, trying to see past their lies to find their true intentions, that you don't know how to accept one-sided concepts. You believe that there has to be some sort of other intention behind simply wanting to help someone. You don't understand because you don't have a heart. And that's not my fault, not anyone's, but your own."

He was silent for a moment. My words hung around us like smoke, choking and suffocating us both. I opened my mouth to apologize but could find no words at all. I hadn't meant to be so cold and brutal, but at the same time I was glad I had spoken my mind. My thoughts and feelings had been bottled up for so long which had only intensified my hurt and anger further. Things had not been quite right since Sherlock had pretended to fall to his death, a mere year ago that felt like only yesterday. He had betrayed me; betrayed my trust. And he had not apologised once.

I waited for him to say something. Anything. Anything at all. But he remained motionless. Silent. It was so quiet I swore I could hear our hearts beating.

Finally, he stood up from the armchair and looked me in the eye. I waited. A cruel remark or a perhaps just a sarcastic observation; anything would have been peferable to the thread of silence that hung between us, straining, threatening to break at any moment. I took a sharp intake of breath and he stared into my eyes. Another moment passed and he said nothing at all. Until, finally, he turned and walked out of the room.

I waited, stunned, but he did not come back. I heard the faint sound of Mrs Hudson's concerned voice from downstairs and then the front door closing quietly. When I went over to the window I saw that Sherlock was already halfway down Baker Street. I watched him walk away with a heavy heart. I watched him walk away until he disappeared completely, just another shadow amongst the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sherlock**

The night air was cold as I walked across the cobblestones, rain just beginning to fall from the sky. I'd forgotten to take my coat and just as I realised this, I shivered. I debated whether or not to hail a cab and then promptly decided against it, realising that I wanted to walk to clear my head. Or perhaps just waste time, hopelessly over-analysing the words we had said and the words we hadn't said. I had nowhere to go but St Bart's. I knew that Molly would still be there as she always worked late just in case I showed up out of the blue. Kind, sweet, naive Molly. In many ways she reminded me of John; I both abused their kindness and took them for granted. John. Just thinking about the way he had looked at me before I had walked out of 221B made guilt tug at my heart. But I couldn't think about that now. I couldn't let myself feel guilty. It didn't solve anything, instead only causing more problems.  
Molly proved my deduction correct as I found her in the morgue. It always struck me strange how an innocent girl like Molly could end up working with dead bodies but I had never cared enough to tell her so. She was sitting at her desk surrounded by paperwork, rather than the usual array of pale and lifeless bodies. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, parted in the middle as it always was.  
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Molly." I announced loudly, walking over to my latest scientific experiment without so much as an explanation for my sudden presence.  
"Sherlock!" She looked up at the sound of my voice, surprised. Her cheeks flushed pink as she cleared her throat and tried to compose myself. "Um...not at all. No. Of course not. You're welcome here anytime."  
She smiled at me but I ignored her, concentrating on lighting the bunsen burner she kindly allowed me to use with the silver lighter I had "borrowed" long ago from Mycroft. I waited for her to look away and continue with her paperwork, but her eyes remained fixed on me. She was clearly as lonely as I was, simply wanting to talk to someone. I wasn't sure if Molly had many friends; it was surprising that many people discriminated against her for no reason other than her job. But we were alike in that sense and that sense only; misunderstood.  
"So, what are you doing here so late?" She asked, eagerly.  
I turned to the rack of chemicals she kept, searching for the sulphuric acid. When I turned back, I observed that she had shaken her hair from its neat ponytail and applied some sort of dusky pink lipstick. I wrinkled my nose in distaste and continued to pour the acid into a cylinder.  
"Couldn't sleep." I lied, deliberately keeping my answers concise and blunt to avoid any unnessecary conversation. It wouldn't work though - it never did with Molly. She remained hopelessly oblivious to my coldness, or perhaps noticed it but chose to ignore it.  
"I can't sleep either, these days." She mumbled.  
She wanted me to probe her further, perhaps enquire if she was alright but I didn't. I couldn't. I was Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't supposed to care. After all, as John had put it, I didn't have a heart.  
"That's a shame." I muttered, my voice sounding as if I could not care less.  
I did not glance at Molly but from the corner of my eye I saw her face fall slightly. I knew she was disappointed that I had not commented on her subtle change in hairstyle and new lipstick. The truth was, I was too tired. Any other day I would have taken the opportunity to tease her for it or perhaps flirt with her a little just to humour her, but I felt drained. Exhausted. A feeling I was not familiar with. My brain was always wide awake, alert; I didn't sleep for long hours like most mere human beings. I didn't see the point, wasting time with an idle mind when it could be kept up debating theories and conseqently solving questions. Damn John. Damn him for making me feel like any other ordinary person. I knew that it was his influence; the guilt I suddenly felt for everything I did. He made me care too much...  
"Are you okay?" Molly asked, suddenly, and I realized that she was standing very close to me. Closer than she had ever dared to stand before. When I raised an eyebrow, she stumbled over her words. "It's just...you don't seem okay."  
"Yes, Molly," I snapped, irritably. "I am okay. Now please refrain from attempting to engage me in idle, trivial chatter when I am trying to conduct an infinitely more interesting and important experiment."  
Her face fell again, brown eyes filling with hurt. I opened my mouth to say something, anything at all, but before I could she dropped the stack of paperwork she had been pretending to read and ran from the room. I stood alone in the darkened room staring at the empty space where she had stood and felt my heart fill with despair. The test tubes filled with colourful solutions beckoned me closer but somehow I couldn't quite muster the energy to continue the experiment I had been working on. Science was a distraction, something I could focus on when I no longer wanted to be a part of the real world. But tonight nothing could distract me from the ache that had infiltrated every bone in my body, the ache I could not ignore or even just distract myself from. I had never needed anyone before I met John; I had always been alone. "Alone is what I have, alone protects me" I had told him once. But now I managed to distance myself from all those who tried to come close and it no longer protected me, like I had first percieved, but saddened me.  
I walked out of the morgue, out of St Bart's hospital, and stood on the concrete pavement for a moment. Above, the sky was just beginning to lighten. Soon enough it would be dawn. And the rain was still falling. I stood there for an indefinite amount of time, letting the rain soak my skin, for what could have been an hour or a mere few minutes. I watched the sky begin to fill with a crescendo of colour. It was only at sunrise that I finally mustered up the courage to hail a cab and return to 221B, all the while my heart a hollow black pit in my chest.

**Mia**

The first rays of dawn brushed the edge of the rooftops. I watched the pale light dilute the morning sky. Cold air blew through the cracks in the window frame as flecks of rain fell against the window. I was wide awake. I hadn't slept all night. John's presence calmed me, creating the illusion of safety, but when I began to drift off I dreamt of a man with hollow black holes for eyes, pressing a blade against my cheek, and I could not sleep anymore. I don't know if I will ever be able to sleep properly again.  
I heard sudden movement from downstairs. The distant rattle of a kettle being filled and then boiled. I supposed it was Mrs Hudson. The sound comforted me somewhat, reminding me of what used to be my home. I often had bad dreams, though those dreams seemed tolerable compared to the nightmares that now haunted me, and would wake up very early. Just hearing my parents downstairs, getting ready for work and brewing coffee, set my mind at ease and made the tightness in my heart fade away. But that was a long time ago; I had not been home since I was fourteen.  
I shook my head, as if to shake the bad thoughts away, and clambered out of bed. The flat was freezing, the wooden floor beneath me like frozen slabs of ice, as I walked across the hallway in nothing but John's shorts and thin t-shirt. I tip-toed downstairs, careful not to make any sound, and almost reached the bottom in success until the very last stair gave me away with an ominous creak. Mrs Hudson, standing at the sink, immiediately turned around with a shocked expression that immiediately washed away as she realised it was me.  
"Oh, Mia, it's you." She chuckled and I remembered how much I liked the sound of her laughter. "I'm sorry. We often get...unwelcome visitors shall we say. I never know who to expect!" Her expression darkened for a moment before dissolving into a wide smile. "You're up early, dear."  
I nodded, still feeling timid towards her despite her kindness. "I...didn't sleep very much last night."  
Her brown eyes filled with sympathy, as if she understood. "Well you've been through a terrible ordeal, I wouldn't expect it would be easy to sleep well at first." She smiled, a smile that warmed me despite the cold air around us. "But don't worry, dear, you'll be fine. Soon enough we won't be able to get you out of bed at all!"  
I mustered a smile but shivered as a gust of frozen air blew through the open window.  
"Come on in, you must be freezing." She exclaimed, beckoning me into the kitchen.  
I followed her cautiously, reluctant to intrude on her home aswell as John's. Her kitchen contrasted completely with John's kitchen upstairs. While in John's every spare inch of surface was covered in what seemed to be scientific experiments, Mrs Hudson's was pristine and looked as if it perhaps should have belonged in a dollhouse rather than a dingy flat in the centre of London.  
"Would you like a cup of tea?" She asked.  
I shook my head politely, but she smiled and poured me one anyway.  
"You can wear this if you'd like. It's old but very warm." She gestured to a woollen cardigan draped over one of the chairs.  
I opened my mouth to decline but before I could she had enveloped it around me. With a knowing smile, she continued to make our tea. It seemed that Mrs Hudson was not a women to be argued with. The cardigan was wonderfully warm as I huddled closer into it. It smelt like the rest of the flat did; faintly musty, like the smell of old books. It instantly comforted me and gave me the courage to talk to her properly.  
"So...how did you meet John and, um, Sherlock exactly?"  
She set down my tea cup in front of me and took a seat in the chair opposite to mine. She took a sip of her tea, despite the fact it was piping hot, and only then looked me in the eye to answer.  
"I've known Sherlock a long time. A very long time." She said. "Four years ago, when I had just bought this house and was planning to rent it out to lodgers, he approached me. He asked me how much the rent would be, despite the fact I had not even advertised it yet. I mean, I had only just moved in. I was shocked. And quite frankly, terrified. I thought that he was a stalker and shut the door in his face. But he kept persisting and I did need the money terribly, so I agreed. He's always been slightly...strange. I noticed it as soon as he moved in. He would often dash out at odd times of the night. And there would often be strangers at the door asking to speak to him. I grew very suspicious and kicked him out on the spot...until he told me what he was..."  
I stared at her. "What he was?"  
Mrs Hudson smiled slightly. "A consulting detective. The world's only."  
I frowned. "I don't understand."  
Her eyes clouded slightly and she bit her lip. "Perhaps it's best I don't tell you, dear. I don't want to...well...involve you. It's not always very safe."  
I nodded reluctantly. "And John?"  
"Well John met Sherlock quite by chance. I'd been meaning to seek out a new lodger to help pay the bills but, well, you know Sherlock. He's not really the type of person to have many friends who might want to stay with him." She chuckled. "I was beginning to give up hope when he suddenly brought John here one day. He immiediately struck me as being quite the opposite of Sherlock, which was exactly what Sherlock needed. He'd been in Afghanistan for four years but had to retire because of a leg injury. Ever since they first met they've been rather inseperable. John works with Sherlock now."  
I immiediately found it strange that John worked with Sherlock; whatever work Sherlock was involved in, my inclination being that it was something dark, John did not seem the type to join him. He was different - kind. He cared about people. Sherlock...didn't. I felt doubt grip my heart and clench it tightly. I felt safe here, like nothing could happen to be. But now...surely I was at more risk than ever?  
I was about to question Mrs Hudson further, when a sound made us both jump. The creak of a stair. When I turned in my seat I saw John standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching us. He was still wearing his pyjamas. I felt a strong sense of inexplicable guilt for talking about him in his absence; it seemed he had been standing on the stairs for a long amount of time. I mustered a smile, as if the doubts now clenching my heart did not exist.  
"I see that you're both getting on well." He said, casually, as he hesitated in the doorway. "I don't want to intrude on your conversation..."  
"Nonsense, John, I've just boiled the kettle. Help yourself to a cup of tea." Mrs Hudson said, a little too brightly. It seemed she too felt a little uncomfortable about the fact we had just been talking about him.  
He walked slowly over to the kettle and took his time making tea. He did not stir in the milk straight away, instead watched the patterns it made as it permeated the surface. I knew at once that there was something not quite right; the sadness in his eyes spoke more than words ever could.  
"John?" My voice was quiet, cautious.  
"Hm?" He glanced up from his teacup, now aware of the fact that Mrs Hudson and I were staring at him with concerned expressions.  
"What's wrong?" I asked him.  
He bit his lip and sighed. "I had an argument with Sherlock last night...we both said a lot of things we didn't mean...well, I did. He walked out and he hasn't been back since."  
I stared down into my empty cup, not wanting to meet his gaze. "It was about me, wasn't it?"  
John mustered a watery smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Not entirely."  
I sighed, feeling the familiar sense of uneased guilt that had been blooming in my chest ever since I had first set foot in 221B. Sherlock hated me. I couldn't stay here and continue to cause arguments between them both...  
"Maybe I should leave." I said, finally, avoiding both John and Mrs Hudson's stares. "I shouldn't even really be here in the first place."  
John opened his mouth to speak but Mrs Hudson spoke before him. "No. Absolutely not. I will not let Sherlock's stubborn behaviour steer you away..."  
She was interrupted by the sound of the front door closing. We all turned to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. His skin was pale from the cold and he looked like he had not slept all night. His curls were messy and unkempt, patterned with fallen snow. It was his expression that silenced us; the coldness in his eyes that reduced Mrs Hudson's words to hollow emptiness.  
"Very kind of you to speak so highly of me, Mrs Hudson." He said, dryly.  
And that was when I saw the opened envelope in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sherlock**

The first thing I noticed about the envelope was that it had been expertly sealed, leaving no traces of evidence. My first instinct had been that it was perhaps a postcard from one of Mrs Hudson's many grandchildren, but there was no address written on it, nothing at all. Not even a stamp. It was also slightly crumpled, as if someone had stuffed it into their pocket in a hurry. The sight of it uneased me immiediately, despite the fact I had not yet seen its contents. I opened it and found a single sheet of paper, folded three times. A note. It had been typed, but not on a computer or laptop. Some of the letters were jumbled up, crossed out, and the ink had been smudged in several places. Whoever had sent it had used a typewriter. But, I thought as I attempted to flatten out the creases, why use a typewriter when they had practically become obselete years ago?

**My dear Sherlock,**  
**You didn't honestly let yourself think**  
**I'd let your fairytale have a happy ending?**  
**And what fun is a fairytale without a good**  
**old-fashioned damsel in distress?**  
**We'll be seeing each other soon.**  
**- Jim**

My frozen heart numbed my body so that I could no longer feel anything else at all but the coldness infiltrating every bone in my ribcage. I read the note several times, each time looking for something new - something that I'd missed - but found nothing at all. My mind instantly wandered back to the scene that had occured eight months ago but still managed to haunt me to this day. I could still feel the hopelessness, the despair, as he had promised the lives of John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, and then taken that promise away with one single gunshot. Moriarty. The consulting criminal surrounded by the bleak drudgery of London and a crimson sea.  
He was alive. And he was back.  
Despite my distress, I carefully placed the letter back into the envelope and began to fumble blindly through the pockets of my coat for my keys, unable to see anything but the printed words on that white page before my eyes. Eventually I found them, and pushed the door open, only to hear Mrs Hudson's voice.  
"No. Absolutely not. I will not let Sherlock's stubborn behaviour steer you away..."  
They were all sitting around the dining table in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Discussing me. I just stared, the envelope burning holes into my hands. I looked at John, who bit his lip and stared straight down at the table to avoid my gaze. Mrs Hudson fiddled anxiously with the gold rings she wore on her hands. Only Mia's eyes remained on me and somehow, though I could not explain how or why, I knew that she was aware that something was wrong.  
"Very kind of you to speak so highly of me, Mrs Hudson." I muttered, but my heart was not in it. My thoughts were elsewhere.  
My unease must have been easy to sense as John stared at me, questioningly, with raised eyebrows. "What's wrong, Sherlock? What's happened?"  
I looked through him, past him, until my eyes met Mia's.  
"Perhaps you should ask her." I said, my voice perfectly even despite my trembling thoughts.  
John's eyes flashed with anger. "What on earth are you talking about?"  
I ignored him, keeping my gaze fixed on her. I handed her the crumpled envelope. "This letter came. Would you care to explain what exactly happened to you?"  
Her eyes scanned the printed words. She bit her lip.  
"I can't." Was all she said, her voice a faint whisper that only ignited the spark of anger ready to engulf my better logic and reason.  
"Do you have any idea what this could mean?" I demanded, my raised voice causing her eyes to become frightened. "Do you realise the severity of this situation?"  
She shook her head. I snatched the piece of paper away from her.  
"Would anyone care to enlighten Mrs Hudson and I on what's going on?" John demanded, angrily.  
I looked pointedly at Mia but she said nothing, her eyes cast down to the floor.  
"Fine. I'll explain, shall I?" I stared straight at John. "Moriarty is back."  
"What?" He stared at me with hollow eyes. "What are you talking about?"  
"John, now is no time for your moronic incompetence. Moriarty is back. I don't know how, I don't know why, but he's back."  
"No, Sherlock." John exclaimed, angrily. "He's dead. He died on that roof. You were there, you saw it happen - he's dead."  
"Denial is both pointless and time wasting," I snapped, impatiently. "The sooner you realise that, the better."  
I handed him the letter and watched him read it, his face growing paler with every word.  
"But...how?" He whispered.  
"It's not impossible to do, John. I did it myself, afterall."  
"Fine." He licked his lips, something I had observed he always did when he was frustrated. "So Moriarty faked his own death. But what does that have to do with Mia?"  
"Oh, John, don't you see?" I exclaimed, exasperated. "The damsel in distress, don't you understand? It's her. This girl you've brought off the streets. It was him all along."  
John's face had paled to a translucent shade of white. He turned to Mia and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.  
"Tell me what all of this is about." I demanded.  
She stared at me, eyes wide. "I don't know. I don't know anything."  
"You're lying." My voice was dark. "Don't try and fool me, I read people for a living. So don't attempt to lie to me because it doesn't work."  
"Tell me what you are first!" She stood up from where she had been sitting and took a step closer towards me. Her eyes were clouded with fear. "You tell me now or I swear I'll run. I'll run and you'll never see me again."  
"Appealing as that does sound, I can't let you go without knowing more." I snapped back, irritably. "Didn't Mrs Hudson bother to expain all of this?"  
"I wasn't sure if you wanted her to know." Mrs Hudson said, quietly. "I thought it would endanger her."  
I scoffed. "If anything, Mrs Hudson, the girl has endangered us all by her mere presence. I don't think enlightening her about what I do as a profession is going to harm her much further." I turned my gaze back to Mia. "I'm a consulting detective. The police enlist my help when they are out of their depth, which is always."  
She narrowed her eyes. "A consulting detective?"  
"Yes, congratulations you are able to recall pieces of speech. Now please refrain from stating the obvious and ask the questions you so wish to ask. We are wasting time."  
"Fine." She spat. "Who is Moriarty?"  
I sighed. "There are endless ways to describe Moriarty and what he does, but as we have already wasted enough time I'll be concise. You could say he's the opposite of me; the consulting criminal. People go to him when they want a crime to be carried out but are unable to do so themselves as they are not smart enough."  
"Then why did he capture me?"  
"That is what I intend to find out, but until then perhaps you could now enlighten me on a few things. Firstly, what happened the night he kidnapped you?"  
She took a deep breath and winced, as if remembering pained her.  
"Please." My voice softened as I saw the distress in her eyes. "It's important you tell me. I can't help you otherwise."  
She nodded, slowly. "It was...late. I'd been studying at college in the library. I live in a flat in Richmond, only a short tube ride away. I remember seeing this...this symbol on the underground. It looked as if it had been spray-painted on. I couldn't recognise what it said. I didn't really think anything of it - just got on the tube and went home as usual...except when I got there the front door was open slightly. I didn't know what to do. I live on a council estate - people's houses are always being robbed. But I don't own anything worth stealing; I can barely afford the rent, let alone a state of the art television. I stood outside for a long time, just waiting. I thought that perhaps if I waited a while, the person would leave and I could confront them. I waited ages but they didn't appear so I had no choice but to go inside..." Her words trailed off, lost to her thoughts.  
"And?" John shot me a look as if to warn me that I was being insensitive, but I ignored him.  
"And he was waiting for me." She continued, her voice faint. "He was just sitting there on the sofa. This...this...man."  
"Moriarty." I added, helpfully.  
She nodded. "He told me that he'd been waiting for me. I picked up a knife and threatened him, told him to leave, but he just laughed. He said that I had to go with him or...or..."  
"Yes?" I interrupted, impatiently.  
"He'd tell my parents where I was."  
I stared at her for a long moment. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the window, catching some of her hair and turning some of it to single strands of gold. I realised that it was not actually black, but very dark brown. Her eyes were grey-blue, hollow as they stared into mine. There was something about them that I recognised...the way she was watching me. I had seen her face before. Yesterday I had recognised her but had been unable to think where from...but where? Where had I...  
"Oh." I whispered, keeping my gaze fixed on hers.  
Silence seemed to fall as I pieced it all together. Both John and Mrs Hudson stared at me, baffled, but Mia turned away.  
"Would you care to tell them, or shall I?" I asked her. She said nothing.  
"For goodness' sake, Sherlock, just tell us!" John exclaimed.  
"A few years ago, three to be exact, politician Henry Grey won the elections and became prime minister of London." I paused, my mind wandering back. "I remember reading about it in the newspaper. I don't usually concern myself with such trivialities, I tire as it of Mycroft and his so-called importance in today's politics, but I had been reading an article about a case I had recently been asked to solve and on the front page was the election article. Except the article did not go into detail about the election itself, but the major event that had happened that very day. His fourteen year old daughter had mysteriously disappeared without a trace."  
John was silent for a moment, taking in my words, and then he stared at her.  
"Mia, is this true?"  
Mia bit her lip and nodded. "My name is Amelia. Amelia Grey. I shortened it to Mia when I left."  
"And why did you leave?"  
"Things were hard." She said, quietly.  
"Of course," My voice was full of sarcasm. "It must have been dreadfully hard growing up with such a privelleged lifestyle."  
She glared at me. "Is that what you think? A privelleged lifestyle guarantees happiness?"  
"Well, it certainly helps."  
She shook her head angrily. "I haven't been happy...not for a long time. My mother and father's relationship was falling apart. My dad was so wrapped up in his work that he forgot about us all and, soon enough, my mother stopped caring too. I looked after my little sister as best I could. I tried, I really tried, but it didn't work. I couldn't balance it all - schoolwork, looking after her, trying to convince my mother not to leave us all completely. And then my father won the election. After years of all that work he finally got what he wanted and I knew that it was only a matter of time. I couldn't stay there anymore...I couldn't stay and watch everything fall apart. I asked Beth, my sister, to run away with me but she refused. She was too young, too young to know that anything was wrong. I knew that my father, no matter how distracted he got by work, would look after her. So as soon as I heard the news...I left. I had money saved in a bank account that I used to buy myself a place to stay...I suppose being privelleged does help sometimes. I dyed my hair, cut it, did everything I could to prevent anyone from noticing that it was me. I never went back to school, I knew if I did they would find me. I couldn't take that risk. I started educating myself using books from the library...I'd already completed some of my GCSE's which allowed me to get onto one of the courses at college. They looked for me, at first; even ran a national campaign as an attempt to find me. Before I left, I set a trail. When the police looked through my computer they saw I'd been looking at train times to Edinburgh so that was the first place they looked. They never imagined I was still in London, only a few train rides away...and they haven't found me since. They gave up." Her breath got caught in her throat, eyes filled with sadness. "Beth will be twelve now. She will have started secondary school."  
I could not explain why my heart suddenly clenched tightly against my chest. Part of me realised why John had been so eager to help her in the first place; it was that lost look in her eyes, the hopeless desperation that reached deep within me and made me want to help her find her way again. Originally I had percieved her to be nothing more than a hopeless mess. But she was not hopeless but strong; stronger than I could ever hope to be. It was no wonder why John had fallen in love with her...  
I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that had fallen. "I'm going to go to the morgue. I need to conduct a few tests, check if there are any traces of evidence that might lead us to Moriarty."  
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, stopping me in my tracks. I was already by the front door, ready to walk out onto Baker Street. "For chrissake's you've only just got back. You haven't slept all night."  
"I don't need to sleep." I answered. "I need to find answers."  
"Well, let me come with you." He said.  
"Me too." Mia said.  
I shook my head. "No, I don't need either of you. You'll only distract me and ask idiotic questions."  
"Charming." John muttered, but I had already closed the door behind me.  
I walked hurriedly through Baker Street and hailed a cab. I leant my head against the glass of the window and stared out of it. The early morning sunlight was the only wash of colour amongst the winter sky. I kept my gaze fixed on the sky as I passed the endless streams of people and busy streets.  
_She's just a girl_, I told myself. _A hopeless distraction. Don't ever forget that._


	6. Chapter 6

**John**

Mia was silent for a while, lost in her own thoughts. Mrs Hudson kept making cups of tea which we both drank. Mia's remained untouched, stone cold. A couple of times I thought of something to say but then promptly decided against it. We remained in the kitchen all morning, watching the dappled sunlight fall across the floor, waiting for Sherlock's return and not saying a single word. Until Mia finally spoke.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you."

I glanced at her, surprised. "It's -"

"No, John, it's not fine." Her voice was forceful. "Sherlock was right, I've endangered all of you."

"Mia, if Moriarty really did fake his death then he would have come after us anyway. It's just unfortunate that somehow he wants to involve you in whatever he's planning. This isn't your fault."

"I just want my life back." Her eyes were dark, fearful, a single word away from filling with tears. "I don't want this. Any of this."

"Sometimes I feel the same." I said, truthfully.

"All of this...it's so messed up." She cried. "I never even knew a consulting detective could exist, let alone a consulting criminal."

I mustered a smile. "There are times when I can't really believe it either...I find myself constantly wondering if Sherlock is even a real human being. The majority of the time, he certainly doesn't seem like one."

She mustered a vague smile, tracing patterns in the sugar Mrs Hudson had accidentally spilt with her fingertips. "That night...when he captured me...he said something."

I glanced up at her. "Really?"

She nodded, her expression grave. "About Sherlock."

I raised an eyebrow. "What did he say?"

She was silent for a moment, as if she didn't want to say the words out loud, her eyes cast down to the floor. Finally, she spoke again.

"He said he wanted to burn his heart out," She looked up at me with frightened eyes. "Once and for all."

I wanted to tell her that it was most probably an exaggeration, the ramblings of a mad man, but I did not want to lie to her.

"Sherlock will be fine." I said, more confidently than I actually felt. "He can take care of himself."

She nodded with a frown and we said nothing more about it, though it seemed as if there was so much more she wanted to say. In the silence that fell between us, I took the opportunity to study her again. Only this time in a different light. Now I looked at her, I saw the similarities between her and her father; the slight upturn of her nose and the freckles that patterned her nose and of course the distinctive green eyes. I almost felt foolish for not realising sooner. But I realised that, to me, she would never be Amelia Grey but Mia; the frightened girl I had found in an alleyway and hopelessly fallen in love with in such a short amount of time...

It was then that I remembered Louise and I felt dread cripple my heart instantly. We had not spoken for days...I had forgotten all about her. About us. It was true that we had not been seeing each other for a long while and that we were constantly on-off, but that was still no excuse. I felt terrible. I _was_ terrible. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Mia glanced at me, seemingly noticing my sudden discomfort.

"John?"

I smiled, vaguely. "I've just remembered I was supposed to, um, meet someone. Old friend. I should really be going. Forgot about it completely. Will you be alright here with Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm afraid I won't be here either." Mrs Hudson said, surprising us both by suddenly appearing in the doorway of the kitchen, carrying a purple suitcase. "I've arranged to stay with my sister for the night and my train is due in thirty minutes."

"Oh." I bit my lip. I was reluctant to leave her on her own but I really had to talk to Louise. I couldn't put it off any longer. I had to see her as soon as possible...I owed her that much.

Mia fixed me with a reassuring smile. "John, I'll be fine. I'm sure Sherlock will be back soon anyway."

The thought of leaving her alone with Sherlock did not put my mind at any more ease; he would most probably reduce her tears with his lack of patience and understanding for any person he deemed unworthy of his time. But I didn't really have any other choice.

"Well...if you're sure. I won't be long. Hour or two, tops."

She smiled at my anxious reluctance and handed me my coat. "Of course, now go! Your friend will be expecting you."

Somehow I doubt it very much, I thought, mustering a small smile. When I finally closed the door behind me and looked up into the winter sky, reality finally dawned on me. I was going to see Louise. I was going to tell her that I could no longer see her. I had no idea whether it was the right decision or perhaps the biggest mistake of my life but it was a pathway nonetheless, and so I took it in the form of the very first cab that would stop for me.

Note: © A Study In Pink, John Watson's blog.

**Mia**

It was a long time before Sherlock finally returned to 221B. With both John and Mrs Hudson absent, the flat had seemed very empty indeed. I had helped myself to a cup of black coffee and headed upstairs, unsure quite what to do with myself. I'd been meaning to clean a few of the rooms, figuring it was one way of repaying the favour of letting me stay in the first place, but curiosity had gotten the better of me and soon I was rifling through the endless boxes littering the place. I was not quite sure what to make of the majority of the stuff I found, a prime example being a skull. And then I found the files. They were stacked neatly on the desk, each bound in expensive leather. They looked both incredibly important and incredibly secretive and I knew that I had no business in reading them. I tried to distract myself but before I could stop myself, I was walking over to the desk and scanning the contents of each one.

I opened the first, labelled: "**A Study in Pink**" in what I recognised to be John's neat printed handwriting. It was a page printed out from a website, which immiediately caught my interest. It was a print-out page from a blog of some sort and as I scanned the top of it I realised that it was John's.

* * *

A Study in Pink

I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.

This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying. At least I've got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I'll never really get used to him. It's just, on that first night, I literally had no idea of what was to come. I mean, how could I?

I was looking at the flat, surprised at the state it was already in, when DI ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓from Scotland Yard burst in. Sherlock, of course, already knew why he was there. There'd been another death - this time, in ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓. Sherlock asked me to join him and I went along, intrigued. In the taxi, he explained how he'd deduced everything about me the previous day - how he'd picked up on every word I said, every action, tiny little things about my phone. It was extraordinary. I'd try to explain it here but I don't think I'd be able to do him justice. Go to his site, Science of Deduction, and see for yourself how his mind works.

I was still surprised that, even being the genius he clearly is, the police would come to him for help. He said he was a 'consulting detective'. Naturally, being the arrogant so-and-so he is, he'd had to give himself his own unique job title.

We arrived in ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ where, to my surprise, he introduced me as his colleague. The police seemed surprised by this as well I get the impression he'd not had 'colleagues' before. It was a body of a woman, dressed in pink. And she'd been poisoned. Again, Sherlock just looked at her and he knew everything about her. The way she was dressed. Splatters of mud on her leg. What was there and, more importantly, what was missing. Her suitcase. And it was that which excited him. The missing pink suitcase.

He left the body and ran outside to searched for it, naturally leaving me behind. I spoke to a policewoman and she summed Sherlock up. She said 'he gets off on it.' And he does. He didn't care about the dead woman or any of the other victims. I suspect if he came back and found me and our landlady lying here with our throats cut, he'd just see it as an intellectual exercise. 'Fantastic' he'd exclaim, rubbing his hands together. 'But the door was locked so how did they kill each other?' The policewoman, she called him a psychopath. That seems harsh and it was hardly a professional diagnosis but I look back at what I wrote about him when I first met him. I called him the madman.

So I went back to Baker Street and Sherlock asked me to send a text message. He'd found her suitcase and discovered that the victim's phone was missing. He knew the killer would have it, so there I was, texting a serial killer.

He'd found the woman's missing suitcase because he'd known it would be pink, like the woman's clothes. It hadn't even crossed my mind and when I said this, he told me I was an idiot. He didn't mean to be offensive, he just said what he thought. I've been called worse things but his bluntness was still a bit of a surprise. He just didn't care about being polite or anything like that. I was starting to understand why he didn't seem to have many 'colleagues'.

After that, we went on a stakeout. We waited in a restaurant to see if the killer would visit the address I'd texted him. Across the road, we saw a taxi pull up. We ran out, but it drove off. Sherlock insisted on chasing it and luckily he seemed to have an intimate knowledge of London's backstreets. Of course, as I realised afterwards, he's probably memorised the London A-Z. We ran down street after street and we managed to catch up with the taxi - only to discover that the passenger wasn't our killer. He'd only just arrived in the UK. It was the most ridiculous night of my life - I mean, an actual chase through London. People don't do that, not really. But we did.

And, of course, by doing this, Sherlock proved my limp was psychosomatic. Did I mention he's clever?

We returned to the flat to discover that ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ and the police were there, examining the suitcase. It was actually pretty funny seeing how offended Sherlock was by this. I genuinely think he believes himself to be above the law. And he couldn't stand the fact that ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ had got one over him. ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ described Sherlock as a child and, in many ways, that's what he is. I said that he doesn't care about what others think and that he's arrogant because of this but it's not really that. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he genuinely doesn't understand that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just doesn't understand the rules of society - which, of course, is probably why he's so good at working the rest of us out.

Sherlock thinks everyone else is stupid so he's like a kid at Christmas when it turns out that one of us have done something clever. I'm not talking about me but our murder victim. She hadn't lost her phone. She hadn't left it behind. She knew she was going to die so she'd left her phone in the taxi - And, like all modern phones, it had a GPS system so you could locate it. That brilliant woman had led us to her killer.

And he was outside. He was outside our flat - in his taxi! We'd chased him halfway across London, thinking he'd been driving the killer - but he was the killer himself. That was how he'd manage to get to his victims - just by picking them up in his cab. Of course, Sherlock being completely and utterly mad, got into the taxi so he could talk to him. Again, he wasn't interested in the 'rules'. He wasn't interested in how the driver had done all this. I don't think he was particularly interested in stopping him and it didn't even cross his mind to let the police know that the man they were looking for was outside. All Sherlock Holmes was interested in was discovering why the killer had done it. He wanted to be alone with the killer so he could question him. That was more important than anything else - despite the obvious threat to his own life.

The taxi driver drove him to a college of further education so they could both educate each other on - well, on how their minds worked, I guess. It's not something I'll ever really understand and, to be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to understand it. To be that much of a psychopath. To be that above the rest of us. To be that dangerous. It's pretty terrifying.

Afterwards, Sherlock told me what happened. The taxi driver had a brain aneurism. He was dying. He'd pick up his victims and take them somewhere. Then he'd give them a choice. Take one of two pills - one of which was harmless and one of which would kill them. Their only other choice was that he would shoot them. It makes me furious to think about those poor people who got into his taxi - one of them was just a kid! They must have gone through hell. But Sherlock, mad old Sherlock, he understood him. As far the taxi driver was concerned, he was outliving people. He was giving himself the power of life and death. And I do, I genuinely think Sherlock understood this.

Myself and the police had managed to work out where they'd gone so we'd driven after them. But it was too late. By the time we got there, I could see that Sherlock was going to take one of the pills. It wasn't because he had to but because it was a game of wits. He wasn't going to let this other arrogant, pompous psychopath win. Which is when someone shot the taxi driver. Someone like that's bound to have enemies so it shouldn't have been a surprise but I hadn't seen anyone shot since Afghanistan. It's something you never really get used to. That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved.

And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.

There was one other thing though. Before the taxi driver died, he said a name. A name of someone or something that had helped him. Moriarty. I've never heard of it and neither has Sherlock. Of course, he loves it. He thinks he's found himself an arch-enemy. He's a strange child.

And since that night? It hasn't stopped. Oh, there's so much more I've got to tell you.

* * *

I stared at the piece of paper in my hands, unsure of what to think. Everything suddenly seemed a whole lot clearer, but this file was just the first. I knew that I should have stopped there, but my curiosity overwhelmed my better reason and soon I was poring over the words of the next case file and then another. I scanned each one, my heart beating wildly as if there was a bird trapped under my ribcage. I had just opened the second to last file - The Hound of The Baskerville - when a voice sounded out.

"Found anything interesting?"

I dropped the file as if it was a flame that had scalded my fingertips. I could only stare helplessly as the file fell, its binding torn apart; loose pages fluttering as they caught the breeze before finally gliding to the floor. I turned to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He had taken his coat off, despite the cold, wearing only a thin purple shirt. To my surprise, he did not appear to be angry. His eyes seemed to glint with amusement as he watched me stumble across the carpet to pick the pages up.

"You scared me." I mumbled, thankful that my head was lowered so that he could not see the hot flush staining my cheeks. Perhaps he hadn't seen.

"Scaring you wasn't my intention," He remarked. "I only meant to inquire where John was, but found you rifling through his stuff instead."

I stifled a sigh. Of course he had seen; Sherlock saw and observed everything. Before I could say something, anything at all to justify my actions, he knelt down in front of me and began helping me to collect the pages. I stared at him, surprised.

"Let me help you." He answered by way of explanation, seeing the questioning look in my eyes.

Although I didn't know him well, it seemed odd for him to do such a thing. Still, I did not question him further. We managed to gather together all of the pages but the binding was broken and I could not do a thing about it.

"It doesn't matter." He said, sensing my hesitation. "I doubt John will particularly mind - the Baskerville case never was one of his favourites."

I tried to muster a smile but found that I couldn't. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt at what I had done. Sherlock watched me intently with his eyes. I had observed that they changed colour depending on the light. Now, in the darkened living room, they were silver grey. I felt as if my heart was painted on my face whenever he looked at me. I could not hide anything from him.

"You don't have to feel guilty. Part of what John does for a living is blogging these cases for all to see, so it wasn't as if the files were confidential."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, suddenly.

He did not answer immiediately; his steel eyes observed mine quietly for a moment. And then he smiled. A small, barely there, half smile. But a smile all the same.

"Trying to make me feel better, I mean." I bit my lip, feeling foolishly shy as he continued to stare at me.

"You seem surprised at my capability to be nice at times." He commented, eyes flecked with amusement.

I felt myself flush again. "Forget it. What I meant to say was...thank you."

He stared at me for another long moment and then nodded. Our voices succumbed to silence but the silence was not uncomfortable. I realised that we were both still kneeling on the floor but Sherlock remained seemingly oblivious. Or perhaps he just did not care. Despite our proximity, to my surprise, he suddenly did not seem so...intimidating. Of course the intensity of his gaze still had the ability to silence me completely but here, crouched on Mrs Hudson's faded floral carpet, he was different. For once he did not seem like a superior being, barely even human, with the ability to observe things most people could not see; he was just a person. And with this revelation, came a sudden surge of courage deep within me.

"So," I said, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. "_'A Study in Pink'_ - was that actually true or just a story?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened suddenly, reflecting the grey skies that lay outside beyond Baker Street. They reminded me of black ice, frozen and dangerous. I knew at once that I had said the wrong thing.

"It wasn't a _story._" He said, coldly, mocking my words. "It was real. All of it. Every single one of these cases are real. Moriarty is real. Why are you incapable of accepting that?"

"I know," I said, hurriedly, stumbling over my words slightly. "I know that. It's just...some of the cases seem too extraordinary to be true -"

He got up from where he had been kneeling and strode over to the door. The kindness in his voice had been replaced by darkness.

"This isn't a fairytale, Mia." His voice was weary, as if he was tired of me - as if my incomptence had worn him out. "This is real. The sooner you accept that, the better."

I stared at him, wordlessly, as he closed the door behind him. I listened to his footsteps until they became no more than distant echoes, drowned out by the sound of the front door slamming behind him. When I glanced out of the window, he was already driving away in a cab. I stared after him, helplessly, as the sky outside darkened. I had seen a different side to him. A side that lit up every inch of him. But almost as soon as that side appeared, the light within him diminished and all that was left was coldness; an ice wall around his heart that had thawed slightly and then solidified at the slightest touch.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: I've just started sixth form and I'm going to have loads of work to do so probably won't be able to update as regularly, but I'll try to at least twice a week or something. Keep reviewing :)

**John**

I arrived half an hour late to find Louise sitting outside her flat, smoking a cigarette, bathed in the little sunlight the winter sky offered. She only glanced up at me when I stood directly in front of her, after being completely lost in her own thoughts. She somehow looked different than I last remembered her - more tired. Her skin was very pale, so pale that the the purple veins under her eyelids were extremely prominent, and washed out with not a fleck of colour in her cheeks. It was obvious that she had been working late night shifts again.

"I didn't know you smoked." I said, gesturing to the cigarette between her fingertips.

She looked up at me, wearily, but said nothing. A sudden breeze blew, so cold that it almost knocked the breath out of my lungs as if I had jumped into a frozen swimming pool. I shivered.

"Shall we go inside? It's cold out here."

She shrugged, stubbing out the remains of her cigarette onto the concrete until it finally stopped smouldering, stood up and went inside knowing that I would follow. I could sense that there was something wrong; Louise always greeted me with a wide smile and a bottle of wine. I rarely saw her dressed in anything less than an expensive dress, so it surprised me to see her still wearing her slightly crumpled nursing uniform.

Her flat was a state; clothes everywhere, takeaway cartons littering every available surface, countless ashtrays overflowing with butts. Louise was a very cleanly sort of person, unlike Sherlock - I think it was being a nurse and all, she always obsessed about the state of her flat and never let me come up unless it was tidy. Now she sat amongst it all, overwhelmed. She just did not seem to care anymore.

"Louise, listen. I want to talk." I cleared my throat.

She stared up at me, her face blank. "Kettle's just boiled."

"I...I don't think I'll be staying that long actually." I said, thinking of Mia. "I have plans tonight."

She snorted. "Sherlock taking you out? I hope you have a nice time together."

"I'm sorry I missed our date the other week. You know I wouldn't have cancelled if it wasn't something incredibly important." I was lying, despite myself; I didn't dare tell her that Sherlock had basically never required my help in the first place.

"I understand." She said, and for one moment I believed her until I saw her eyes darken. "Perhaps you should consider dating Sherlock. You spend so much time together, after all."

"Louise, please. I'm...I'm sorry."

She averted her gaze from mine and kept her gaze fixed on the blank wall ahead. Her voice was not angry, but dull. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I have been working for twenty three hours, tonight I will get two hours' sleep and then I will have to return to the hospital for another six. I took that evening off especially so that we could go out. I've been working longer hours to make up for the time I missed. So don't tell me that you're sorry, because you're no way near as sorry as I am; sorry for bothering in the first place."

I bit my lip. I wanted to apologise again but knew it would do me no favours.

"I think it's over, John." She said, wearily. "I don't think I can do it anymore. I'm too tired, too sick and tired of it all."

At Baker Street, having not seen her in so long, it had all seemed to clear. I had wanted to break up. I had wanted to move on. But now, I felt doubtful. Guilty. Perhaps this wasn't the right decision after all...Louise didn't look in the best of states.

"Maybe...maybe we could just take a break." I said. "See how it goes."

She shook her head and it was then I knew that it was all too late; the sadness in her eyes spoke more than words ever could. I cleared my throat, trying to maintain a state of composure despite the fact my heart had slowed.

"Perhaps I should go." I said, quietly.

She lit another cigarette and said nothing.

"Will I..." I paused, my question suddenly seeming ridiculous. "Will I ever see you again?"

She dragged her eyes from the glowing embers. For a moment I thought she was about to tell me that I was being foolish, but the words never came. Instead, she sighed. "I don't know. I just don't know, John."

I nodded, as if I understood and saw myself out without saying another word.

**Mia**

John finally arrived back at 221B. He could only have been gone an hour and a half, but the duration itself seemed endless due to the fact I had been on my own for the remaining length of time since Sherlock had left without so much as an explanation for his maddeningly strange behaviour. I had been reading a book I had found on the bookshelves - The Portrait of Dorian Gray, the only book that did not entail any sort of factual study of science - but had not really been able to concentrate on the words it contained.

"Sherlock isn't still at the morgue, is he?" He raised an eyebrow.

"No." I swallowed. "I mean, I don't know. He came back but then...he left again."

"He does that." John remarked and sat down in the armchair across from mine with a long sigh.

I couldn't help but notice the pained sadness in his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders as if the whole world was weighing him down.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"I will be." He mumbled. "Eventually."

I bit my lip. I wanted to question him further, but it seemed as if he did not wish to talk about it. But then, suddenly, he turned to me and proved me wrong.

"My girlfriend and I...we just broke up."

I stared at him. He had a girlfriend. Or, rather, he had done. Something about that fact struck me as unusual. It did not seem as if John had the time to have a girlfriend due to his demanding work with Sherlock. Before I could stop myself, I had told him that.

"I don't have the time really." He smiled weakly. "I shouldn't really get involved with anyone. I always end up letting them down eventually...it's not fair. I just -" He shook his head. The words he had been about to say evaporated into emptiness, only emphasising the fact they had been left unspoken further. "Don't worry. I shouldn't bore you like this with my meaningless troubles."

"I'd like to hear them." I paused. "I'd like to help you."

He smiled at me. "I suppose I just don't want to be alone."

"Alone?" I stared at him in surprise. "But you have Sherlock."

John sighed. "I know...Sherlock is my friend. My best friend, in fact. I just sometimes feel distanced from everything. Even when I'm surrounded by a sea of people, I can feel alone."

"I think I understand." I said, quietly, and I thought of the life that I had left behind in Richmond. At the very beginning, I had wished to have it all back; the normalcy of it all. But now I realised that I had never been truly happy. Not when I had still lived with my parents and not when I had lived alone. I realised now that for the first time in years, despite the otherwise unfortunate circumstances where Moriarty was concerned, I was happy. John finding me and allowing me to stay at 221B had saved me, and not just from Moriarty...but from myself.

"You're not alone." I said, suddenly, jolting us both out of the silence that had fallen.

John glanced up at me and smiled. "Thank you."

"No, really. You don't need a girlfriend to compensate for loneliness when you already have friends; Sherlock and Mrs Hudson and...and me."

It was then and only then that his face actually brightened; as if every inch of him had been filled with light. I couldn't help but smile myself.

"Well, isn't this touching."

I turned, surprised, to find Sherlock standing in the doorway for the second time that day. I wondered if he purposely crept up the stairs in order to scare people.

"Louise and I broke up." John murmured and the smile faded.

"I never did particularly like her."

John sighed. "Do you ever particularly like any of my girlfriends, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused to consider this for a moment.

"No." And then he glanced purposefully at me, his eyes dark. "I don't."

I was about to open my mouth to argue but he had already began to speak again. "I studied the letter at the morgue. Moriarty, if he is the sender, used a Hermes typewiter, rarely found in good condition nowadays so therefore would have cost a significant amount to obtain. I suppose he used a typewriter because it almost gives nothing away."

"Almost?" John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled knowingly. "The typewriter may be untraceable, but the ink isn't - he will have had to have purchased special ink from a certain shop. And as typewriters have practically become obselete, typical shops do not stock typewriter ink; in fact there is only one in the whole possible seventy mile radius that the letter could have been sent from in London."

"Which is?" John prompted.

"The Owl and the Pussycat."

He sighed at our blank stares. "It's a small book and coffee shop in Marylebone Road. The man who owns it has a passion for collecting old typewriters and therefore stocks ink for others who do also. It's therefore likely that Moriarty could have bought the typewriter itself from there too."

"All that information from a single brand of ink?" John's tone was incredulous.

"Of course not, John," Sherlock said with a yawn. "There's more."

"Well?"

"I'll enlighten you on our way to the book shop." He replied, and turned for the door.

"I'm not allowed to come?" My voice trembled, but I couldn't help it. I was so sick of Sherlock's cold cruelty and blunt remarks. He had no reason at all to hate me so much but did so anyway.

"Your presence will not be required." He said, coolly.

"Perhaps I can assist you in some way." I offered.

Sherlock was just about to utter another cold remark when John interrupted him.

"Yes. I am feeling a little...weary, shall we say." He paused. "Mia can take my place for tonight."

Sherlock just looked at me coldly and then walked out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time. John winked at me but it did nothing to cease the doubtful unease blossoming in my stomach.

"Go." He whispered. "Maybe you can influence him to be a little less stubborn."

"I doubt it." I whispered back, but followed Sherlock anyway.

Outside, a black cab was waiting. Sherlock was already sitting in it, an impatient expression staining his face. We drove away in silence as the sky began to darken above.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock**

We arrived at The Owl & The Pussycat at seven o'clock, just as the sky had turned to the colour of ink. I could tell that Mia, beside me, had questions she did not dare to ask but I did not care to allow her to voice them. Marylebone Road was full of life; endless streams of people returning home from work and filing out of the tube station as snow continued to dampen and purify the bleak concrete. I handed the cab driver his fare, did not bother to tell him to keep the change, and headed straight to the bookshop. Mia followed a few steps behind me, struggling to keep up with my hurried walking pace.

The Owl & The Pussycat was tiny, almost unnoticeable amongst the array of shops with fresh paint and flickering lights it stood amongst. Its paint was peeling, the sign so faded that its name was almost illegible. It looked as if it was a place that had been forgotten a long time ago.

"I don't think it's open." Mia said, uncertainly.

"Nonsense." I remarked, and pushed open the door to find it unlocked.

The shop's interior itself could have been described as cosy, if I cared enough to be polite, but I firmly concluded that it was just cluttered. There were a few rows of shelves but the majority of books were stacked as towers that almost reached the ceiling. The whole shop was a labyrinth, an endless maze of books, that offered only a few thin pathways to walk through. In the half light, the little shop smelt of dust and paper and wanderlust. When I looked at Mia, I saw that she was entranced; her face a mixture of awe and disbelief and wonder. I couldn't help but smile.

"We're not open. I was just about to lock up."

We turned. A small elderly man that I deduced to be the owner glanced at us wearily from behind his framed gold spectacles. His skin was pale, washed out, a result I presumed of being inside the shop day in day out without seeing sunlight. He wore a moth-eaten jumper, checked button down shirt and tie that was stained with the coffee he had drank this morning. He looked tired but had a certain stance that prevented him from appearing frail that most other elderly people did not posess. The dark circles under his eyes suggested many sleepless nights, probably a result from reading late into the night and having to arise so early to open his shop. When he caught me staring, he glared.

"I'll call the police."

"I'm certain that won't be nessecary." I smirked. "I _am_ the police."

He peered at me uncertainly while Mia glanced at me with doubt.

"Don't believe you." He sneered.

"Very well." From my pocket I produced Lestrade's badge. I had stolen it long ago when I was bored and it had since proved very useful in many cases. Lestrade had never quite figured out that I was the culprit and had obtained a new one very recently because of it.

"DCI Greg Lestrade." He read out.

"And you are Mr Havisham, I presume. The owner?"

He nodded. "Have been for twenty five years to this very day, as it happens." His eyes darkened momentarily as he looked at Mia. "Who are you?"

"My assistant, but that is unimportant. I understand that aswell as books you sell antique typewriters, is that correct?"

"Occasionally, yes." He answered, with narrowed eyes.

"And so I would be correct in understanding that you recently sold one - a Hermes, to be precise."

He paled slightly as his eyes darted behind his glasses. "How-how would you know about that?"

"Mr Havisham, my dear man, I know everything." I said, my tone impatient.

He adjusted his glasses so that they sat on the bridge of his nose and I noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. "Yes." He said finally. "It is true."

"And you sold it to whom, may I ask?"

Suddenly, the man's eyes clouded over. "I can't tell you." He said, through gritted teeth.

"No matter, I'm sure I can probably guess. You sold it to a man; a man called Jim Moriarty."

He shook his head. "No."

"Mr Havisham, I am a patient man but I will arrest you if it comes to it." I said, warningly.

"His name wasn't Jim." The man whispered. "But I can't...I can't tell you."

I was about to argue, when Mia spoke. Her words silenced me.

"Perhaps if you wrote it down?"

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment but then nodded gravely and went to fetch a pen and scrap of paper.

"What are you doing?" I hissed.

"Helping." She said, her voice quiet.

"I don't need your help. You're only here because John is deluded in thinking that we need to spend some time together to get to know each other."

"And why is that such a bad thing?" She asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but Mr Havisham had already returned with the scribbled name he had written on the paper he had found. I fixed him with an expectant look but, to my surprise and utmost outrage, he handed it to Mia. She gazed at it for a moment before her face drained of colour.

"What?" I demanded. She remained speechless. "What is it? _Who_ is it?"

When she did not answer, I snatched the piece of paper from her and stared at it.

Two words. A name. My name.

_Sherlock Holmes_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Mia**

"He's using my name." Sherlock whispered, his face ashen.

Silence fell, hushing our voices but not quite managing to hush the quiet patter of snow falling against the window pane. Mr Havisham looked at me for some kind of explanation for Sherlock's sudden distress, but I said nothing and looked away.

"If anything happens, anything at all, the police will trace it back to me."

"But it's just a name," I said. "Just a name on a piece of paper."

He looked at me - _at_ me, instead of through me - and I saw that for once his eyes were not filled with coldness but genuine fear. Perhaps I should have been glad, he had said so many cruel things to me despite the fact I had done nothing to hurt him, but I wasn't. I could not physically muster any kind of satisfaction at his sudden despair. My heart warmed, as if it longed to melt the ice that shielded his own.

"He framed me before, there's nothing to prevent him from doing so again." He choked out. "They all wanted to believe it before; they _wanted _to believe that I was a fake. And now they will want to believe that I am guilty, too."

"It doesn't matter, _they_ don't matter." In that moment I could see nothing else, not the towers of books or the confused expression on Mr Havisham's face as he watched us, nothing else but his eyes. Pale silver and green. "If anything happens...he'll be found guilty eventually."

"But what if something bad happens?" He said. "Something really bad? Moriarty is insane, he will stop at nothing. Not even if that means bombing London or taking innocent lives..."

"Then we will have to find him before anything bad happens." My voice was more confident than I felt.

I wanted to remain in that moment forever. Sherlock's eyes on mine. Coldness confined to the ice outside and not tangled amongst his words. But of course it couldn't last.

"Would either of you care to explain what the hell you're talking about?" Mr Havisham snapped irritably.

"We wouldn't want to keep you from your duties as a shopkeeper to lock up," Sherlock answered, coolly, leading me to the door. "Terribly sorry for the inconvience, Mr Havisham, and thank you for your _indespensable_ information." His words were drenched in sarcasm, as if it was Mr Havisham's fault for Moriarty's actions which I suppose that, in a way, it almost was.

Mr Havisham muttered something in response but Sherlock had already walked out of the shop onto the iced concrete. He held my wrist tightly as if he was afraid I would not get away fast enough and though he dragged me along, I liked the feeling of the coolness of his skin against mine. We walked down Marylebone Road, hurrying past crowds of people that stopped to stare at us with curiosity in their eyes.

"I need to go to the morgue." Sherlock mumbled, his words blurring around me like a snowstorm.

"Maybe you should go to Lestrade?" I suggested, breathlessly, as he continued to drag me behind him.

He stopped suddenly, as if realising that he had been touching me, and let his hand fall to his side awkwardly. I must have stared because he swallowed and placed it in the pocket of his trench coat.

"No." He said. "It will only arouse more suspicion."

"But if you talk to him now then perhaps he can prevent you from becoming a suspect if something does occur."

He shook his head, impatiently. "No. I don't wish to concern Lestrade in this case. He's just part of the police force. He can't stop Moriarty, no one can." He paused and stared into the night sky. "No one but me."

"John would pursuade you to go to him." I said quietly.

His eyes flashed with the familiar anger that made my heart lurch. "John can't _pursuade_ me to do anything. I don't answer to him and I most definitely do not answer to you."

I shook my head, no longer able to take his short temper, and began to walk away from him. I had only taken three or four steps when he grabbed my wrist again, but this time his grip was more gentle.

"Mia." He said softly. "Don't walk away."

I wanted to continue walking. In fact, I wanted to run. But his words made me still, forbidding me to do anything but turn to him.

"I'm sorry."

I stared at him in surprise. "You're...apologising."

"Yes." He shifted his weight and a look of discomfort crossed his face as if he was embarrassed. "I shouldn't take this out on you."

"I suppose I can forgive you."

The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. I had never seen him smile properly before. I realised that it made his eyes light up and look even more beautiful, if that were possible. It was then in that moment that I temporarily forgot about the troubles and dangers that faced us. We stood on the frozen concrete, the ink blue sky filled with stars and constellations, snow falling and patterning our faces with ice crystals.

"Come on," He said, breaking the spell. "We should go."

But even so, the magic remained all the time we sat in the cab to return to 221B.


	10. Chapter 10

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**John**

"Moriarty has stolen my name."

I flinched. The newspaper I had been reading fell from my hands and landed on the floor, its pages scattering in all directions. I tried to calm my fleeting heart as I found myself staring up at Sherlock and Mia. I hadn't even heard the front door close.

"Hello." I muttered, sarcastically, bending down to pick up the loose pieces of crumpled paper. "Nice to see you too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed outwardly. "We don't have time for pleasantries, John. We have to proceed quickly."

"He's stolen your name." I stated, flatly.

"Yes."

I looked to Mia for a clearer explanation and she mustered a small smile. "He used Sherlock's name to purchase the typewriter he used to send the letter; we think it may be a clue that suggests he will also be using his name in whatever crime he commits which, needless to say, isn't good."

I bit my lip. "That isn't good at all. You've already been in trouble with Lestrade and the rest of the police..."

"Yes I know, thank you for stating the what I am already very much aware of." Sherlock snapped, his tone impatient. "Now if we could please stop stating the obvious and proceed?"

"It's ten o'clock at night, Sherlock, how exactly are we supposed to proceed?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Who cares about such a trivial thing as sleep when there's a case to be solved?"

It amused me greatly to know that he was not in fact being ironic but deeply serious.

"Well, believe it or not, as a human being I am not actually able to function without sleep." I said sarcastically. "And neither is Mia."

"I'm not tired." She said, automatically, and then stifled a yawn.

"Point proved."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Fine. Let's all waste valuable hours by remaining immobile."

"Yes, let's." I said and walked over to the door before remembering that the sofa was now my bed.

"I'll take the sofa tonight, John."

"No." I said. "Of course not."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake, she can have my room - I don't need to sleep anyway."

I glanced at Mia. She was biting her lip as if she didn't feel entirely comfortable accepting his invitation.

"If he's going to be a pompous twat you may aswell take his bed."

She stifled a smile that contrasted with Sherlock's explicit glare.

"You can go to _bed_ now." He said the word 'bed' as if it was a foreign concept he had never heard of before and would never understand.

"With pleasure." I gestured for Mia to follow me. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He merely grunted in response.

**Mia**

I had suspected that Sherlock's bedroom would be the same as the living room, cluttered and chaotic, but I was proved extremely wrong. It was very simple; moss green wallpaper, bookshelves and of course a bed. There was a framed picture of Edgar Allen Poe which bore a striking resemblence to Sherlock himself and a brightly-coloured poster of the Periodic Table on the back of the door, the only vague forms of decoration. Its scent was different to the musty smell that lingered in the other rooms; woodsmoke and rain. It instantly took me back to the weekends I would spend with my father when I was younger. Back when he cared about me. Every month or so when he wanted to escape for a little while, he drove us far away to these deserted woods that everyone else seemed to have forgotten about. The woods themselves were beautiful; tangles of trees and fallen leaves and endless skies...and the air always smelt of woodsmoke and rain.

John, seemingly having noticed my sudden distance from reality, glanced at me. "Mia?"

I shook my head, as if to shake the thoughts away. _It's past now_, I told myself, but my heart still cowered in my chest from an explosion of nostalgia.

"It's fine. I'm fine." I swallowed hard. "Just...tired. That's all."

He nodded. "Of course. I hope you'll be...comfortable here."

I mustered a wordless smile. Sensing that I wanted to be alone for a little while, he walked over to the door but turned suddenly before he could open it.

"Well..." His voice was soft. Quieter. "Goodnight, Mia."

"Goodnight, John."

The door closed behind him, shutting out the world that lay outside just in reach, and left me alone with my heavy heart and broken memories.


	11. Chapter 11

**Sherlock**

Despite it being eight o'clock in the morning and therefore a perfectly acceptable time to arise in the morning, when I pushed open the door to John's bedroom I found him still fast asleep. I sighed deeply in frustration which convieniently managed to jolt him from his depths of slumber.

"Sherlock?" He rubbed his eyes as if he almost wished I was just a figment of his imagination or perhaps even a nightmare. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Well, I wasn't going to wake you but as you're now concious you may aswell accompany me."

"Accompany you?"

"Yes, accompany. I'm glad to see your hearing has not been impaired by Mrs Hudson's constant fussing." I said dryly.

He fixed me with a weary glance. "Don't start this, Sherlock, it's too early in the morning. To where am I supposed to "_accompany_" you?"

I smiled knowingly. "Patience, John. You'll soon find out."

"Stop." He groaned. "Just stop. You know how infuriating I find it when you decide to be all secretive and refuse to tell me what's going on."

"Oh you're no fun." I rolled my eyes. "If you must know, we will be visiting The Woman."

He stared at me. "The Woman as in Irene Adler?"

I sighed. "Yes, if you must refer to her as that."

"It is her name, Sherlock." He grumbled. "So what makes you so eager to visit her gravestone now? You've never expressed such interest before."

My tone was impatient, sarcastic despite the fact that of course John had no way of knowing. "Oh, perhaps I should mention that she is not in fact dead."

His eyes flickered with disbelief and then cynicism. "You're joking."

"You should well know by now, John, that I find 'joking' both pointless and asanine. Now will you be accompanying me or not?"

"You know there is this notion, though it might seem ridiculous, that friends are supposed to tell each other the truth." His tone was deliberately nonchalant, but I could tell that beneath it was deep annoyance that _almost_ caused me to feel the _tiniest_ bit guilty.

"I didn't see the importance of such an insignificant fact and therefore found no benefit of informing you of the matter." My words were supposed to comfort him but strangely only seemed to aggravate him further.

"Fine." He said through gritted teeth. "So why, if you can find a benefit in telling me, are we due to pay her a visit?"

"If Moriarty is back then she will more than likely have something to do with his return or at least will know something about it."

"And what makes you think she'll tell us anything?" He asked, his tone sceptical.

"I don't _think_ she'll tell us anything," I answered smugly. "I'm certain she will."

John gazed at me wearily but could find no energy to argue further. "Fine, I'll get ready now. You can wake Mia up."

The prospect of having to wake her unnerved me though I was not entirely sure why. I masked my discomfort with outrage. "Why, are you incapable of doing so yourself?"

"Just do it, Sherlock." He snapped irritably. "Or I won't come at all."

A year ago if a person had threatened me with such a phrase, I would have found no trouble in laughing in their face. Occasionally I still had to fight the urge to do so. But he wasn't an ordinary person. He wasn't a mere human being like the rest, despite the number of times he tried to tell himself that very fact. He was John, my best friend, and despite my frustration to admit to myself I needed him.

I allowed him the privacy he needed to begin his routine of getting ready. Living with John for a year's duration of time had allowed both advantages and disadvantages. A disadvantage was the inordinate amount of time he spent in the shower each morning. Personally, I appreciated personal hygiene as much as the next mortal but John's level of grooming was something to be considered with raised eyebrows. I knew that it would be a good half an hour or so before he finally declared himself ready to face the outside world. With this in mind, I bided the time I had in order to leave awaking Mia to the very last possible moment, and headed down to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. I had wanted the time to myself to collect my thoughts and was consequently both disappointed and annoyed to find Mrs Hudson sitting at the kitchen table.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded, immaturely pouting despite myself.

"Lovely to see you too, Sherlock." She replied, unfazed by my bluntness, and continued to eat the bowl of muesli and chopped strawberries in front of her.

Her clothes were crumpled, a stain on the left pocket of her knitted cardigan that suggested they were in fact the clothes she had been wearing yesterday. Her hair was messy and unbrushed, very unlike the Mrs Hudson both John and I were accustomed to. Presentation meant everything to her. She colour co-ordinated her wardrobe for heaven's sake. These facts alone, combined with the dark circles under her eyes, caused me to come to my conclusions. Satisfied with my deduction, I turned my back on her to pour my cup of coffee.

"So which sister was it?" I asked, maintaining a nonchalant tone.

"Sorry?"

"The sister cheating on her husband?" I faced her again whilst trying to prevent the smug smile of satisfaction from seeping onto my face. "You had an argument because you didn't agree with it and consequently took an earlier train home from Yorkshire."

She stared up at me with an overwhelmed expression. "How - never mind." She took a sip from her teacup and sighed. "Cecilia. She and Rupert have been married for twenty five years and now she is contemplating whether or not to run away with her Italian neighbour."

Part of me somehow both pitied and envied them...ordinary people. For their problems and dilemmas because they felt like the whole world to them but were realistically so small and so insignificant. I wondered how Mrs Hudson's sister might react to the likes of Jim Moriarty. I took a sip of my coffee despite the fact it was piping hot.

"Anyway, I suppose it's her life and therefore her decision." She paused. "So...how are you and John getting on?"

"Fine." I answered bluntly. I did not wish to inform her of the recent tension that had begun to strain our friendship, knowing that she would fuss.

"It's nice to have some female company here..." She remarked over the rim of her teacup. "Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"

"No." I replied, curtly, taking a sip of my own coffee.

"What do you mean? Mia is a lovely girl." Her tone was indignant.

"Mrs Hudson, if you are going to insist on fawning over the girl please do so in the company of John and not me."

She sighed deeply and said nothing, which somehow managed to bother me even more than if she had.

"For goodness' sake, if you are going to think so loudly you may aswell express your opinion verbally." I snapped.

Mrs Hudson opened her mouth as if to argue but then sighed in defeat. "I just think you're being very hard on her. I know you don't particularly like people but it's clear that John is very fond of her so, for his sake at least, I think you should attempt a civil relationship with the girl."

"Relationship?" I stared at her in genuine disbelief. "Why would I want to form a relationship with her when soon enough she'll be gone?"

"Because, Sherlock," She said, wearily. "That is what people do; we form relationships with each other, we make each other feel welcome and we accept the flaws of others aswell as let them accept our own."

"Spare me the heartwarming speech, Mrs Hudson." I snapped, slamming down my mug of coffee. "There are wars continuing all over the world, people being killed every day for no reason other than sheer brutality and governments who sit by and do nothing..." My laughter was humourless. "You think we as human beings are kind and innocent and accepting? Don't be so naive."

I was about to walk out of the room when her voice stopped me.

"You don't fool me, Sherlock Holmes."

When I glanced back, she was smiling knowingly into her teacup. Her matter-of-fact tone ignited a spark of irritance deep within me.

"On the contrary, Mrs Hudson, I think you'll find that I can fool anyone about anything at any time I want." I stared purposefully at her. "It's my job after all."

And then I walked out of the kitchen allowing the door to slam behind me, confident in the fact that it would infuriate her further.


	12. Chapter 12

**Mia**

_The trees are covered in moss and ivy, tangled roots and extended limbs that beckon me closer and closer into the heart of the woods. The sky is enveloped in darkness with every step I take. Despite its beauty, desperation surges thrugh me and I begin to run. Eventually I reach a small clearing. I see nothing at first, nothing but the thin sliver of a cresent moon above, but then my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see a tent. The tent is not a real tent at all, more of a bundle of blankets and woven patchwork fabrics that somehow manage to constuct one. A lantern illuminates it in golden light; I watch the flame within it flicker and burn for a few moments before I cautiously approach it. I am torn between fear and curiosity as I pick the lantern up to light my way and crawl inside..._

_The tent, despite its exterior, is very big inside - so big I cannot see the fabricated walls. Filled with sudden anxiety, I reach for the material I have just slipped through, but my fingers touch nothing but empty air. My heart knocks against my chest. And then I hear a voice._

_"Mia." A faint whisper. An echo. More like the whispered rustling of the leaves than a voice._

_"Who are you?" I call out._

_"Mia."_

_"Dad?" My cry catches in my throat as I steady the lantern in my hands and look around the tent. But I find nothing but darkness. "Dad, where are you?"_

_"Mia." The voice says again, and this time it fills me with pain._

_"Dad." I choke out, my voice little more than a strangled whisper._

_And then the walls begin to close in. The lantern begins to burn and scald my hand. My grip loosens and I drop it. It shatters into a thousand shards of glass, fragmented pieces of my father, as the world is once again bathed in darkness._

_"Dad..." I try to cry out, but my voice is lost to my tears._

_He is gone._

I awoke suddenly. A door slammed, causing the room to shake and tremble. I stared around the room for a moment trying to piece together where I was. It took me only a second to remember that I was in 221B and that I was safe. The last dregs of my dream were filtered out by the early morning sunlight. _Breathe,_ I closed my eyes, _just keep breathing._

I did't hear the door open, only the faint sound of footsteps. When I opened my eyes, my vision was disorientated. Everything remained out of focus except the pair of eyes searching my own; black irises framed by blue and green and gold.

"Mia?"

Sherlock stood by the window, maintaining a polite distance. He wore a dark blue shirt I had never seen him wear before and a cryptic expression.

"I was calling you." He said quietly. "I wasn't going to come in, but you didn't respond, so..."

"You were calling me?" I stared at him for a moment and then I remembered the voice in my dream. It had not been my father's, but Sherlock's after all.

He nodded. "Yes. I was going to allow you to sleep a little longer but you were whimpering and I -" He broke off from his words suddenly and swallowed as if to dispose of them.

"I'm sorry. I...I think I was having a nightmare." I offered, by way of explanation.

He said nothing but his eyes flickered with something that almost seemed to resemble sympathy. He lowered his gaze so that I could not be entirely sure.

"John wanted me to wake you." He said, without looking up. "We're going to see someone about Moriarty, someone that can help us."

I nodded, despite the fact he refused to look at me. "OK."

A moment passed. Silence fell. His gaze did not meet mine.

"Well," He cleared his throat. "I'll leave you alone to get ready."

I nodded again as he walked away, but something within me silently pleaded for him to stay. When the door closed behind him, it inexplicably felt as if the room suddenly darkened. I was disappointed and I could not understand why. I was unsure of what I had expected. After we visited the bookshop, the weighted tension between us had seemed to slip away. He had smiled at me. Touched me. It had seemed as if we had finally began to understand each other.

But I had seen it again; the dullness in his gaze as he had looked at me. The faint coldness and hostility lingering amongst his words.

It had been one moment. A fleeting moment. And a moment that had passed and would most likely never be experienced again.

I realised then that I felt something for Sherlock. Something that I could not quite explain to myself, but something all the same. My heart caved in whenever his eyes met mine.

I..._felt_ something.

For him.

For the man who did not feel anything at all.

I tried to shake the thoughts away, mark them as figments of my imagination, but the doubts had already surfaced and settled beneath my skin, impossible to ignore. Impossible to escape.

It was too late.

It was all too late.


	13. Chapter 13

**John**

The shower I took was brief and ultimately unpleasant, due to the fact that Sherlock had already used all of the hot water. He always took extremely long baths very early in the morning, claiming it allowed him to "clear his thoughts"; it was a long recurring habit of his I had never quite grown accustomed to, let alone sympathised with.

After I had dressed, I went to descend the stairs but stopped when I caught sight of Mia sitting in Sherlock's bedroom with a forlorn expression. I entered his room cautiously, careful not to startle her, and then promptly cursed as a loose floorboard protested loudly from beneath my feet. I looked over to her with an apologetic expression, but her eyes had not even rose from the floor.

"Mia?"

Finally, she glanced up at me, as if only just realising that I had been standing there. Something within her eyes flickered, but she masked it with a weak smile.

"John, hi."

I stared at her for a moment, wondering how long it would take for the smile to falter completely; it seemed to weigh down every inch of her face, draining the light from her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Despite my attempt to sound casual, my tone betrayed me. I was concerned; too concerned. She opened her mouth to protest, but I stopped her. "And don't just say that you're okay, because I've seen people before and I know when they're not...okay, I mean."

She smiled again; a small smile that did not quite meet her eyes. "I just...I've...it's nothing, John. Really. I've just been worrying about Moriarty, but worrying won't make matters any easier so there really isn't any point in talking about it."

"You can talk to me," I said, and before I could stop myself I leant a little closer. My fingertips brushed her bare skin. I stared at my hand on her arm and swallowed, before withdrawing myself completely. "I just...I mean...I'm here, that's all." I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stared down at the floor, embarrassed.

Mia nodded. "I know. Thank you. It's...it's nice to know that I can talk to someone."

I smiled at her and reminded myself to breathe slowly. The rays of sunlight caught the green of her eyes, reminding me of sea glass. I realised all too soon that I had been staring at her for an indefinite amount of time and forced myself to look away and change the subject.

"So...are you ready?"

She nodded again. "Yes. Sherlock mentioned that we are going to visit someone - who is it?"

I sighed heavily. "She is not someone I particularly wish to describe in great detail, so I'll be concise. Her name is Irene Adler; better known to many as simply: "The Woman". She is notorious for her the endless scandals she has sparked over the years but perhaps most famously known for her work as a dominatrix. In other words, she is by no means a woman to underestimated."

Her eyes clouded over again. "Irene Adler...the-the woman from the case?" At my wordless stare, she swallowed. "I was...cleaning up the other day and I found them, your case files. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "It's no problem. It's probably better that you know more seeing as you're now involved with Jim Moriarty."

She mustered a grateful smile and continued. "_A Scandal in Belgravia_ - that was the name of it, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock...they...he liked her, didn't he?"

I sighed again. "Honestly, I don't know if he did. Nobody can ever truly know what Sherlock Holmes really thinks or feels; he is a man of mystery." Her eyes were cast down to the floor again and it pained me to see her look so lost and so sad for unknown problems I could not solve. I swallowed. "Come on, we should go."

She followed me downstairs without uttering another word.

**Sherlock**

My thoughts on seeing Miss Adler again were mixed and it was impossible to decipher what I truly felt about it - pride, still prominent from the day that I had saved her, but also anger. Deep anger.

I still remembered the day I had first met her; dark eyes that had not looked at me, but _through_ me. It still baffled and frustrated me to wonder how she had managed to both fool me and seemingly feel something for me. A part of me had also felt something for her, I could not deny that. I had saved her from her fate, but I was not sure whether it had been for the sake of my own heart or simply because I could not bear to watch someone with such a magnificant mind die in such circumstances. And there could be no denial in the fact that she was beautiful. But she was also dangerous, incredibly so. Her words and actions had burnt an imprint on me, a permanent scar never to be forgotten.

I was silent in the cab for the entire duration of the journey, my possible words and musings lost to my own thoughts. Every so often John would glance at me in question of my withdrawl from the real world, but I would offer him no explanation. He was my best friend but there were some things that I could and would never be able to confide in him.

**Mia**

Irene Adler was the sort of woman who could silence you without words, and I supposed that she did so in the form of her beauty. Her hair was dark; skin pale, like mine, but that was where our similarities ceased. She wore a cream dress that accentuated her curves, a pair of impossibly high heeled shoes, and a glint in her eye that seemed to suggest she knew things that you did not know and never would. Her lips were scarlet, contrasting with the ivory of her skin. I saw the way Sherlock looked at her; though he tried hard to assemble his expression into a blank mask. I felt my heart fall, though it was foolish - Sherlock was not mine. He never would be.

"Ah, John. Sherlock. I'm glad you could make it. I was beginning to think I would never see you again." Her words seemed to be aimed at both of them, but she stared straight at Sherlock.

Beside me, John cleared his throat.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Adler, although I had been up until recently under the assumption that you were dead." His tone was polite enough, though a hint of coldness crept up amongst his words.

"Details, details. Dead, alive, it makes no difference." She shrugged.

John opened his mouth to argue but chose against it. Sherlock just smirked. All the while she remained oblivious of my presence, not turning her gaze to mine once.

"We've brought someone for you to meet." John said.

"And this someone must be Mia." At last, she turned to me. She looked at me for a moment that seemed to continue infinitely; her eyes seemingly searching every inch of my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself, self-conciously, and tried to maintain a nonchalant attitude. I was well aware of the fact that here, in my faded tattered jeans and hoodie and messy hair, that I was insignificant in comparison. Nothing, in fact. Her eyes wore a glint of menacing hunger, instantly unsettling me, her crimson lips curling into a wide smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

John raised his eyebrows with a cynical expression. "I wasn't aware you knew Mia."

"I don't, only of her." She sat down on an immaculate cream sofa with embroidered cushions and gestured for us all to do the same. "Mycroft has spoken very favourably of her."

"You've been talking to my brother?" Sherlock said, suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken; he had not uttered a single word since we had stepped foot in the house. Unusual, I thought, for him.

We sat down across from her on an uncomfortable sofa that had clearly been designed for its appearance rather than leisure.

"Yes." Miss Adler said, her voice innocent. "Is that a problem?"

"No. I just wasn't aware that you two were such bosom buddies." Sherlock remarked, dryly.

She smiled, mischeviously. "He mentioned that you've been avoiding his calls. Tut, tut, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in response.

"We have some questions that we'd like you to answer. Would you care to help us?" John interrupted impatiently.

She sighed exasperatedly as if his impatience exhausted her. "Dear John, always so quick to hurry things. Haven't you ever tried anything...slowly?"

John's cheeks grew flushed. I clenched my fists tightly together in my lap. She noticed my discomfort and smiled; a beautiful smile that silmutaenously managed to fill me with envy and cause me to shiver.

"I'm sorry, Mia, are you not comfortable discussing such things? You could always leave us to talk privately."  
"Mia will stay where she is." Sherlock said, coldly, surprising me. I'd always assumed he preferred to be without my presence. "Miss Adler, I have questions I would like you to answer. If we could proceed as quickly as possible it would be much obliged. I do not wish to waste time."

Her careless smile faltered somewhat. It was clear, no matter how much she tried to prove otherwise, that Sherlock was very important to her. Everytime his voice grew cold, something within her eyes flickered with doubt. I knew then that though she was reluctant for anyone to see it, she felt something for him. And though I did not want to believe it, I knew it was likely that Sherlock felt something for her. And why wouldn't he? She was known professionally as "The Woman". She was beautiful. Elegant. Confident. Intelligent. Sherlock was such an extraordinary human being. I was foolish to think he would even _consider_ looking twice at a mere human like myself. Because he and Miss Adler were not human beings but something _beyond_ them. And, though they tried to convince themselves otherwise, they belonged together. John felt me stiffen beside him and glanced at me with a concerned expression. I tried to muster a smile, but suddenly smiling seemed like the hardest thing in the world.

"I wasn't aware that this was a police interrogation, but certainly." She answered, finally, the confident firmness in her voice almost extinguishing the doubt in her eyes. "What is it that you wish to know?"

"Are you aware of the fact that Jim Moriarty faked his own death?"

Her eyes flickered with surprise and then amusement. "I am now."

"You had no idea?" John questioned. "No inkling at all that he might still be alive?"

"No." She answered. "I was sure that if Jim was alive then I would have heard from him."

"Still partners in crime?" Sherlock remarked. His voice was cold.

She shook her head and frowned. "Jim and I were never partners. Not really." She looked at him and I recognised a look of urgency in her eyes, as if she was desperate for Sherlock not to perceive her in a bad light. "It was just business, a one time accord."

"Then why would you expect a call from him?" Sherlock asked, scepticly.

She sighed again. "Since that ill-fated proposition, I have avoided all attempts at working with Jim Moriarty. Last time it almost resulted in my death, if you do recall."

"I do." His tone was blunt. "And I also recall you lying to us last time."

"I told you," For one moment she was not "The Woman"; confident and self assured and domineering. She was unsure, doubtful...lost. "It was just a game." She whispered.

Silence fell but their locked gaze never faltered. I looked from her to Sherlock and back again and felt my heart plummet into a black hole. I forced myself to look away. John cleared his throat.

"Well," He said, matter of factly, standing up. "If you are quite sure that Jim Moriarty has made no attempts to contact you, then we will be on our way."

Miss Adler's eyes flashed with urgency. "Don't feel you have to leave so soon. I'll have Kate make us some tea."

Sherlock shook his head firmly, as if having recovered from his dazed state. "I'd rather not stay to attempt unnessecary pleasantries. We've heard all that we need to hear."

Without uttering a farewell, he walked out of the room. John offered her a polite nod and followed after him. It all happened so fast that I had not even stood up from where I had been sitting. When I did, Miss Adler fixed me with a cold smile that seemed to darken her eyes rather than light them up.

"We will see each other soon, I'm sure." Her words seemed to hold a threat.

I opened my mouth to reply but found no words at all. I tore my eyes from hers and walked out of the room with her gaze burning holes into my back.


	14. Chapter 14

**John**

Silence engulfed all possible words any of us could have hoped to have said and lingered the entire duration of the cab journey home. Sherlock sat to my left, face pressed against the cold glass of the window, observing the world outside. Mia sat to my right, hands pressed between the crevice between her, staring down at them as if they were the cause of her troubles. I sat between them both, the heavy tension weighing down on me as I could do nothing but glance at them both hopelessly.

The rain had lightened to a faint drizzle by the time we returned to 221B, but the sky remained as grey as it had been when we had left and showed no promise of sunlight. Mia shivered as a frozen breeze blew. I offered her my jacket but she just shook her head.

No sooner as I had unlocked the door, I stood alone in Mrs Hudson's hallway. Sherlock had darted into the living room and Mia had already ascended half of the staircase.

"Alright then," I muttered, under my breath. "Looks like it's just tea for one."

I walked into the kitchen and stared out of the window for a long moment. It was as if the entire world had been bathed in drudgery and despair. The sight of Mia's distant expression and faraway eyes made my heart clench tightly against my chest; the tension that strained Sherlock and I caused a lump to form in my throat. It was as if I could do nothing but watch as everything slowly began to fall apart.

I was about to turn to boil the kettle, when an object caught my eye. A letter. It had been placed on the kitchen table, neatly propped up against Mrs Hudson's jam jars. From the little grey light the sky offered and the darkness of the kitchen, it almost appeared to be illuminated.

My breath caught in my throat. "Sherlock."

No answer.

"Sherlock." I said again, a little more loudly.

There was an audible sigh from the other room. "Oh, John, what is it? I'm really in no mood for your incompetent stupidity."

"There's another one." I mumbled.

"Another one?" Sherlock grumbled, entering the kitchen. "Another _what_, John?"

And this own gaze fell upon the letter. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then promptly closed it again.

"Why...I mean, how could he have gotten in here? Mrs Hudson is out, both doors locked."

"Such thing as a locked door is no obstacle when you're both a criminal mastermind and pyschopath," Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes. "Hand me my gloves."

I glared at him. "Are you incapable of fetching your gloves yourself?"

He sighed, impatiently. "We have another piece of evidence that Moriarty has simply _handed_ to us, John - stop complaining and hand me my gloves."

Normally I might have protested a little more and ultimately refused to do as he had asked, but today my heart was not in it. Without saying another word, I grabbed his gloves from the coat stand in the hallway and passed them to him. He slipped both on and tore the envelope neatly, a skill I supposed he had learnt after years of practice, and smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper inside. I read over his shoulder due to his reluctance to hand it to me himself.

**I'm glad to see your detective skills haven't faltered after all these months, Mr Holmes. Perhaps my little fall might have done you some good after all, though of course I would have preferred it if it had ceased your life entirely. As you're doing so well so far, I thought I'd give you a little code to decipher so that you can prove your brilliance...after all, that's all you really care about.**

**DOC45M706**

**Enjoy.**

**JM**

**Sherlock**

_Code._ I stared at the numbers and letters as if waiting for them to rearrange themselves and spell out their meaning on the page in front of me, but of course they remained exactly where they were in their state of nonsense. I was reasonably good with codes, once having even deciphered a code for Miss Adler in just eight seconds, but this code meant nothing to me. Absolutely nothing.

John stared at it with an expression that suggested he was just as lost as I was. "I don't get it."

I snorted. "Of course you don't 'get it', John; if I don't 'get it' then you - a mere _human_ - certainly won't."

He fixed me with a withering glare that soon faded into a smug smile. "So you admit it, you don't get it. For once Sherlock Holmes the great detective doesn't understand something."

My own glare silenced him. "It's a code from Jim Moriarty. Of course it isn't going to be able to be understood and deciphered immiediately; this will take some time."

"Of course." John said, with an innocent smile. "Whatever you say."

I opened my mouth to argue but soon stopped myself when I realised that he was simply trying to provoke me. I sat down at the kitchen table with the letter and began to read it again. John rolled his eyes and left me to do so. I stared at the letters and number for so long that soon even when I closed my eyes they were engraved into the darkness. I was about to call John to give me the last nicotine patch that remained in the box, when suddenly a spark was ignited in the pit of my chest. I opened my mouth to call John but promptly decided against it. Instead I withdrew my phone from my pocket and texted him.

**JOHN, YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED. COME TO THE KITCHEN.**

It only took a moment. A sigh of anguished outrage and then heavy frustration and the sound of footsteps soon followed.

"Sherlock, you realise I am in the room next door. You could just as easily have called me."

"And wouldn't that have required a phone aswell?" I retorted.

"I would argue with you if I didn't know how utterly pointless and soul-destroying arguing with you is." He sighed again. "What is it you want?"

"The code," I could still see it before my eyes. "I think Moriarty may have given it to us for a reason other than to simply solve it. I think he wants us to _recognise_ it."

"Right..." He folded his arms across his chest with an annoyed expression. "Well I don't recognise it and you don't, so how exactly does that deduction help us?"

His blunt tone pained me but I mustered a smile as if it did not bother me at all. "The girl."

"The girl?" I raised my eyebrows at him and his skin paled slightly, something he attempted to hide with his irritance. "The _girl_ does have a name, Sherlock. Her name is Mia."

"Her name is of no importance to me," I muttered, impatiently, though of course I knew that I was lying to myself. "What is important is that she may just be our key to deciphering the code."

He stared at me. "You think _Mia_ will recognise the code?"

"Yes."

His eyes grew cold. "No, Sherlock. I don't want you to involve her any further in this than is absolutely nessecary."

"It's too late for that, John." My voice became quieter, more cautious. "I know that you feel something for her and before you attempt to argue do not bother because you know how much doing so irritates me. I know that you feel something for her and therefore do not want her to get hurt, but it is already too late not to involve her in this. She _is_ this case. I don't know how and I don't know why but I intend to find out. And, though it physically pains me to admit, I am incapable of doing so without the girl's help."

"Mia." John said, though all traces of anger from his voice were gone. He swallowed. "Her name is Mia."

"I need your help too." I said.

"You seem perfectly capable without it." His tone was blunt.

Suddenly, I was desperate for the iced tension between us to thaw. I couldn't bear the arguments we had been having these months, the coldness that lingered amongst our words, the way he would look at me as if he no longer knew who I was anymore.

"I need you, John." I paused as his eyes met mine. "I can't do this without you."

I felt as if I was reaching across an invisible but infinite expanse of distance that seperated us to pull him back with me. He was silent for a long moment, mere seconds passed that felt like hours.

"Just go easy on her, okay?" He muttered, finally, before turning his back.

Hopelessness filled every inch of me as I could do nothing but watch as he not only walked away from me, but increased that infinite expanse of distance. It felt as if now he was just a shadow that, soon enough, would disappear completely. A few more seconds passed as I stared after the emptiness he had filled just minutes before until, finally, I swallowed and ascended the stairs.


	15. Chapter 15

**Mia**

Her words lingered and echoed continuously in my mind, the coldness of her sleet grey eyes froze my veins whenever I thought of them. There was something hopelessly intriguing about Irene Adler, but silmutaenously something terrifying. It wasn't just the way she had looked at me, but the way she had looked at Sherlock. It was foolish to be concerned about him; Sherlock was not a person to be concerned about. But all the same, a hollow feeling of doubt began to tighten around my heart. Of course, I knew what I was really scared of but I didn't admit it to myself. Couldn't. Admitting things caused them to become real and I couldn't admit that this had become part of reality because if I did, before too long everything would fall apart.

"I need to ask you something."

I leapt from where I had been sitting hunched over on John's bed. Of course, it was Sherlock. The door had been closed but I had never heard it open but, despite my initial surprise, I was beginning to grow accustomed to his sudden and unexpected appearances. The moss-coloured wallpaper brought out the green within his eyes, shadowing certain parts of his face causing them to stand out amongst the darkness. I looked away. His eyes called to me but his words never would.

"Sherlock...you frightened me."

He said nothing but continued to watch me with a cautious glint in his eyes.

"What," I cleared my throat. My voice sounded rusty, as if I hadn't used it in a while. I sometimes found it hard to speak to him when we were alone. His eyes alone had the ability to make me feel nervous. "What is it that you need to ask me?"

He did not answer my question. Instead, he stared at me curiously.

"What are you doing here in John's room? I thought you were staying in mine."

I dragged my eyes from his. " I thought it would be better if I just stayed here. You...just seemed to mind me being in there."

"I don't mind." He broke me off aruptly. Something flickered within his eyes but I could not tell what it was exactly. "I - what made you thought I minded?"

I opened my mouth to answer but no words materialized. I had no words, no words at all. I closed my mouth and lowered my gaze so that my hair fell across my face so that he could not see the sadness within my eyes.

"What is it that you wanted?" I asked, quietly, repeating my last question.

He sighed and crossed the room to stare out of the window. I noticed that he did this a lot when he spoke; his eyes would dart suddenly over to the nearest source of light. It was as if the outside world helped him to think.

"Moriarty has sent a code," He paused and turned, his eyes momentarily meeting mine for a fleeting second that passed all too soon. "And I need you to help me decipher it."

My heart fell, though I was not quite sure why. I had not even realised that I had been holding my breath, waiting to hear his request. It was as if I had expected..._wanted_...him to say something else entirely. I let out the breath I had been unconciously holding, allowing it to drain and empty my lungs slowly.

"I'm afraid codes aren't exactly my speciality." Sarcasm filled my voice because I could stop it, my own disappointment leaking into my words. "You'll have to consult someone else."

He stared at me for a long moment, eyes passing over me in hushed silence as if he was observing me. His knowing smile, concluded deduction, annoyed me.

"What?" I asked, my tone blunt.

"You're angry with me." He stated, simply, as if it was all too obvious.

I hadn't realised that my heart was painted on my face. I stared up at him coldly.

"I'm not angry at you, just bored with you."

The corners of his mouth turned up again into a half-smile, eyes tinted with amusement. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored." I unfolded my legs and got off the bed, stumbling as I walked over to the door. This only seemed to humour him even more.

"And why would you be bored with me?" He asked.

"Because you change constantly and I can't keep up with you."

The amusement appeared to fade from his eyes and smile. He stared at me but I did not allow him to open his mouth to form an answer.

"One moment you're approachable and the next you're cruel and cold. I don't know how to be around you."

He considered my words for a moment before answering. "I'm difficult."

"I've gathered that." I said, wearily, and turned to walk out of the door.

"Mia," He caught my arm, stopping me. When I turned to him, his eyes searched mine and seemed to find something within them that caused all the stubbourness within me to fade. "Please."

"I don't know if I can help you." I said, quietly.

"I need you to try." From his pocket, he produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me. He had written it out in scrawled handwriting. I had to squint in order to make some of the letters out.

**DOC45M706**

"Do you recognise it at all?" Sherlock asked, tone suddenly impatient.

"Sherlock, I've barely looked at it."

"Of course you haven't. What must it be like in your incompetent little mind?" He wondered aloud, causing me to glare at him. Undeterred, he continued. "I only need a few seconds to make a deduction, let alone figure out if I recognise something or not."

I sighed and handed the piece of paper back to him. "Well, unlike you, I am only a mere human being. I don't recognise the code so, if you'll excuse me."

I wasn't sure what it was exactly but suddenly I felt as if the weight of the world was pressing down on my shoulders, crushing my heart, suffocating my lungs. Codes. Irene Adler. Sherlock's impossibility. . It was enough to make me want to collapse beneath the covers of John's bed and fall asleep for a thousand years.

I was about to close the door, when he stopped me.

"Hold onto it," He pressed the piece of paper back into my palm, closing my fingers over the top as if to ensure I would keep hold of it. "Something may come to you."

"I doubt it." I whispered, but held onto it anyway knowing that if it was what he wished, I would never let it go.


	16. Chapter 16

**John**

It had not been a particularly tiring day but I felt exhausted, as if every single inch of life that slowly been drained out of me. It was only six o'clock, but I could not even muster the strength to sit upright. I considered taking a nap right there where I was on the sofa but promptly decided against it. I knew that soon enough Sherlock would begin to conduct yet another one of his experiments and I would probably awake in an even worse mood than I was currently in. I had just reached the bottom of the staircase, ready to ascend it, when there was a knock at the door. Quiet, at first. I stared through the glass at the shadowed figure who stood there and all at once I felt ice grip my heart. _Don't be stupid_,I reasoned with myself, _it's not him. How can it be him?_ But the ice refused to thaw nethertheless. I stood very still and waited. The knock sounded again but this time it was louder. More frantic. And that was when I heard her voice.

"John!" She cried. "John, please!"

I opened the door to find Louise on the doorstep. She was not standing but hunched against the wall, clutching a half-empty glass bottle in her hands. When she saw my shadow fall across the floor, she turned. I saw that her eyes were framed with the remnants of her make-up from the night before, flecked and patterned across her face. She had been crying.

"John!" She exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and throwing her arms around me. "I was beginning to think you'd never let me in."

I held her away, keeping my hands on her shoulders to steady her. Her lips were stained with red lipstick but it had been smudged. The glass bottle she still held was decorated with its garish imprint. When I said nothing, she smiled at me and leaned in a little closer to kiss my cheek. Her breath was hot, tinted with the scent of whiskey and stale cigarettes.

"No," I said, taking a step backwards. "Louise, stop this. You're drunk."

She glared at me and then pouted childishly. "Not drunk. Happy."

I sighed, heavily. "For God's sake, it's only six o'clock in the evening. Did you finish your shift? Did you go into work at all today?"

She silenced me by putting a finger to my lips. "Stop worrying, John. You're always worrying."

"You need to go home," I said, ensuring that I maintained a gentle tone despite my annoyance. "Do you have money for a cab?"

"I don't care about that," She cried, hysterical suddenly. "I don't care about anything anymore. All I care about is you; I need you."

"We talked about this." I whispered, but my words seemed to be as listless as the breeze. "I-I didn't realise you felt like this. You said that it was over."

"I was angry." There were tears in her eyes again and I felt my heart cave in. "I was hurt. I didn't mean what I said, any of it. Please, John. I need you."

"I can't be with you." I whispered, and my own words knocked the breath out of my lungs.

"But I love you." Her cry was followed by a strangled sob.

I swallowed. It pained me to see her, what she had become. She had fallen apart and it had taken me this long to notice. Her eyes were wide with anguished hurt that I could no longer prevent. There was a part of me that wanted to just hold her and make everything okay again but I knew that if I did that we would soon enough become trapped as we had been before.

"Let me call you a cab." I swallowed.

Her face fell, every light within her eyes dimmed and then finally went out completely.

"No." She said, and this time her words were not hysterical but dull, as if she could no longer find the strength within herself to keep trying. "It's fine. I'll be fine."

She went to walk away but I caught her arm.

"Louise, you can't get the train in this state -"

"Leave me alone," She said, quietly, all traces of anger gone leaving only sadness to remain in her words. "Just leave me alone."

I watched her walk away, stumbling with every step. She took a long gulp of the clear liquid in the glass bottle that I supposed to be vodka, partially draining the bottle. I opened my mouth to call out to her but closed it again when I realised that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. I had let her down. The least I could do was allow her to be alone, as she wished, though this thought alone did little to slow the guilt that had begun to infiltrate my bloodstream.

**Sherlock**

I waited for two hours...nothing. Mia remained in her room. She did not even stir when John's crazed ex girlfriend I could never recall the name of appeared at the door with her drunken slurs and alcohol stained breath. John had closed the door after a little while and headed upstairs very quietly without saying a single word so I supposed it was best that I left him alone with his thoughts, figuring that he could do without my company for a while.

I pretended to read a crumpled newspaper that John had left lying around but could not concentrate on its print, my ears pricking at every creaking floorboard or quiet movement from upstairs. I supposed I could ask her again if she anything had struck her recognition since I had seen her last, but that was just an excuse. A part of me longed to be with her...just for a little while. _No_. I shook my head, as if to shake the madness out of my thoughts. _Stop._

"I'm going to the morgue," I called out to nobody in particular. "Don't wait up."

I stepped out onto Baker Street. Being Winter, the sky had already darkened long ago. The air was as cold and unforgiving as it had been all those hours ago. The only stars in the sky were the artificial ones, the fairylights aligned in ropes across the rooftops of the street. I noted to myself that the goverment had recently begun to suddenly start caring about the state of London's streets. I also noted that this was probably the work of Mycroft and consequently not a thing to be admired, though despite myself I could not help but think how beautiful they looked amongst the sky's ink canvas. The concrete pavements were coated with a thin layer of frost and ice. I stopped to consider this as a metaphor for my soul before realizing that I was being completely ridiculous and chose to hail a cab instead of attempting poetry.

Molly was working late. It was just nine o'clock, not really very late at all, but her shift technically ended at five thirty. I had long ago concluded that she worked late very often. I had also long ago deduced that this was because she often did not want to return home at all and preferred to spend her time at the morgue for as long as possible. Sometimes, I felt the same. The morgue, with its endless chemicals and experiments and scientific equipment, was an escape; a place to get lost in for a little while. It was a place so surrounded by science that it was almost impossible to begin daydreaming about impossibilities. Now, it was what I needed more than anything.

"Sherlock," Molly looked up, surprised, and flushed. "You're here."

"Well observed, Molly." I said, dryly, but despite my sarcasm I was very pleased to see her.

"What can I do for you?" She asked, politely, and it was only then that I remembered how cruel I had been to her last time.

I swallowed and ignored her question. "Molly, I'm sorry for what I said. The other night, I mean. I...I was cruel to you and I shouldn't have been."

She blinked once. Twice. It was as if she was having a hard time believing that we were in a state of reality.

"It's...fine." She answered, quietly, staring down at the hurried notes she had been making.

"It's not fine at all. You have always been here, have always helped me, and I have never treated you fairly. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock," She bit her lip. "It's fine. Really. You don't need to apologise."

I nodded and stared down at the white floor. I could still see the faint reflection of water on its surface aswell as some soap suds. It had been cleaned just half an hour ago. When I glanced up at Molly, her gaze was fixed on the watch she was wearing on her thin wrist. When she caught me staring, she flushed even more.

"Going somewhere?" I enquired, though the lipstick she had applied just an hour ago already told me what I had not known.

She nodded, shy all of a sudden, and tucked a strand of mouse brown hair behind her ear. "It's a date. Well, actually, it's not a date. It's just - it's nothing." She stared down at her written notes again, a deep crimson flush staining her cheeks.

"A date," I considered this with a smile, teasing her. "And who's the lucky man? Not another Rich Brook again, I hope."

She shook her head furiously. "No. No, not at all. He's...he works downstairs."

"You don't mean Rupert on reception, do you?" I looked at her incredulously and she blushed at my horrified expression.

"We're just friends," She whispered. "It's not a date. He's - we're - I mean..." Her words trailed off into nothing. "He's nice, Sherlock."

"Well he's never refused me entry before, so I'd therefore say he's tolerable. The other receptionist...what was her name?"

"June." Molly answered.

"June." I wrinkled my nose. "She was intentionally irritating."

Molly stood up from where she had been sitting and it was only then that I noticed that she looked different. Her hair was loose across her shoulders, free from its usual plait or ponytail, and she wore a light pink jumper that matched the colour in her cheeks.

"You look nice," I told her and surprised myself when I realised that, for once, I actually meant it. "If Rupert doesn't fall in love with you on sight then he's an imbecile."

Molly giggled and then looked at me curiously.

"What?"

"Nothing." She answered, quickly. "It's just...I'm just wondering why you're being so nice to me?"

I swallowed hard. _Because I can't be nice to Mia_, I longed to say, but the words remained trapped within me. Molly could never understand, how could she possibly? She could never understand what it was like to be aware of the fact that you were gradually falling in love with someone and that you could do absolutely nothing to prevent it from happening, even though you knew it would only result in pain.

"Stop wondering and get going, your little receptionist is waiting for you." She frowned at my words while I stifled a smirk. "I'm not capable of being nice all the time."

She smiled at me and her eyes lit up suddenly, as if a firework had exploded suddenly in their atmosphere. She put on her coat and scarf and was just about to leave when she turned to me and gestured to the set of keys she had left on her desk.

"I'll trust you with the keys, just remember to lock up when you're finished."

"Your little faith in me is insulting, Miss Hooper," I said, but the door behind her had already closed.

When she had left, the morgue felt instantly emptier. Of course, I knew I was surrounded by people but they were not living and therefore that notion did not comfort me any further. I was happy for Molly. I did not wish to sound vain and self-absorbed, even in my own thoughts, but she had been in love with me for so long that I was glad she was finally moving on. At least, that was what I tried to tell myself. I did not feel for Molly what she had felt for me. She was one of my dearest friends, though I scarcely admitted it, but that was it. No. I suppose that when she had been in love with me, I had not felt quite so...different. Now, I felt even more isolated than I ever had done before. To know that someone is in love with you, more often than not, is a comfort. To know that somebody out there accepts your flaws and mistakes and loves and cares about you all the same.

I tried to concentrate on the array of glass test tubes before me but could not. My heart was hollow, empty, causing me to question if I had ever really had one before. In all my life I had not felt the need to depend on others, deeming them simply as insignificant beings, and yet now I felt myself falling. Mia remained in my thoughts, amongst all their better logic and reason, and never seemed to fade. It was hopeless trying to convince myself I did not care for her and never would but I would continue to do so anyway. This - my sanity, my dignity - was all I had left. I could not lose that. I could not lose the little remnants of what I had because if I lost those remnants, I would lose everything.


	17. Chapter 17

**John**

I awoke to find the late afternoon sunlight that had spilt through the window gone, replaced by the dregs of a night sky. I sat up too quickly, temporarily disorientated, as I attempted to piece together what had happened. It was as if I suddenly found myself in The Wizard of Oz, surrounded by poppy fields but instead of blooming flowers, I found myself surrounded by bookshelves and furniture. I had fallen asleep on Mrs Hudson's floral patterned sofa, its musty scent all too comforting as if the dust itself was a kind of narcotic that caused me to feel sleepy. Some people described flowers as narcotics; Mrs Hudson herself had soft furnishings.  
All at once, it came back to me - Louise's sudden appearance on my doorstep, breath tinted with whiskey and smoke, Mrs Hudson's departure to meet her sister to clear the air about her illicit love affair, Sherlock's faint mumble about "needing to conduct some urgent scientific research" and the consequent slam of a door that had caused me to finally give up on myself and crumble completely into tears as everything suddenly became too much. Moriarty's sudden presence again, his shadow that darkened every inch of our lives once again, the fact Sherlock and I no longer knew how to be around each other, the sudden despair I felt as if our friendship had been lost forever, and Mia...Mia.  
I listened carefully for a moment. It was so quiet that I was completely aware of the sound of myself breathing, the rise and fall of my chest; so quiet that I swore I could hear the sound of my own heart beating against my chest. I continued to listen intently until I heard the faint sound of trickling water. She was in the shower.  
I heaved a sigh and it seemed to cause every part of my chest to ache. My eyes were still bloodshot from crying. I raked a hand through my hair, closing my eyes momentarily, as I tried and keep myself together. _Don't fall apart, John_. I told myself. _Breathe. Just breathe._  
I attempted to distract myself by beginning to clear some of the mess currently cluttering every spare inch of space in the living room and kitchen. Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed creating mess but did not particularly enjoy cleaning up after himself, a character trait Mrs Hudson had never been too fond of. Outside rain began to fall, drenching the whole of Baker Street in a mere few moments. When I walked over to the window, I saw that the street itself was almost deserted; only the occasional person clutching an umbrella above their heads scurrying quickly across the cobblestones causing it to seem less empty. The night sky was beautiful, but I could no longer see the world's beauty. The only light amongst the darkness was the amber glow of the streetlamp that illuminated the droplets of rain that fell. The sky seemed to weigh down the world, chain and restrict humans to the ground. I stared wearily down at the dark grey concrete below and wondered what it would be like to fall. Sometimes, when I was alone at night with nothing but silence for company and when sleep was a distant impossibility, I imagined the feeling. I wondered what it might be like to fly. Somehow, sometimes, it seemed like falling would be worth flying. And then I wondered what those thoughts might be like; the thoughts just before meeting the concrete and falling forever through darkness. Would the feeling cease in a matter of moments? Or would it continue infinitely, endlessly, the feeling of flying through the air over and over and over again...  
A sudden movement caught my eye. I turned to find Mia standing in the doorway; her hair was damp and tangled across her shoulders and she was wearing my dark blue dressing gown that was several sizes too big for her. My heart was beating hard against my chest, my palms sweating; I felt guilty, as if I had been caught. As if she was able to read the thoughts that had been throbbing in my mind.  
"Hi." Her voice broke the silence that had fallen. I noticed that her cheeks were still slightly flushed from the steam. It amazed me how a person could cause me to feel so hopelessly weak. My heart caved in whenever I looked at her.  
"Hi." I choked out. I stood completely still, unable to move a single inch.  
She smiled, oblivious to the effect her mere presence had on me and curled up on Sherlock's armchair by the fireplace. Our voices were lost to the muffled sound of rain falling against the glass of the window. The darkness outside caused half her face to be shadowed and the other half to be illuminated by the glow of the firelight.  
"Sherlock's gone." She said, quietly. "I heard the door close a few hours ago. I'm not sure, but I think he might have gone to the morgue."  
"Right." I nodded, mustering a smile as if to veil my sadness. "Thanks."  
She frowned. Despite my efforts, my voice sounded different. Distant. I turned away to continue clearing one of Sherlock's ridiculous experiments. I hoped that she would simply forget but then she spoke again and I felt a tight pain in my chest.  
"Is everything okay?" She asked, her voice filled with concern.  
No. I thought. Everything is not okay. I have fallen in love with you when I am supposed to be looking after you.  
"Of course," I muttered, holding up a glass test tube so that I could avoid her gaze. "Why wouldn't it be?"  
I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the glass, but saw her reflection through it as she took a step closer towards me. I felt the coolness of her hand over my own and flinched, as if I had been burnt by a flame. _No_, I pleaded silently, _don't do this to me. You can't. Please don't do this to me._  
"John, you can talk to me," She said, quietly. The hazel flecks in her eyes almost looked gold as they caught the light. I took a sharp intake of breath. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."  
I closed my eyes momentarily as the pain in my chest intensified. She smelt faintly of fresh soap and Autumn leaves. The scent comforted me, filled my chest with a warmth that almost seemed to dim the pain. And in that moment it almost felt as if I could tell her anything...but I couldn't. How could I possibly?  
"John." Her voice was a whisper.  
I stared down at her hand on mine. The arm of my dressing gown had risen slightly, revealing the pale curve of her wrist and the faint pattern of goose pimples; the dim light there was turned each of the small hairs that stood upright into tiny strands of gold.  
"I don't think...I can't..." I swallowed, as I attempted to muster the little courage within me. "I can't talk to you."  
"Why?" She asked, a look of genuine confusion on her face.  
My heart began to ache. Tell her, it begged silently.  
"I just can't." I cast my eyes down to the floor, guilty of betraying my own heart.  
But Mia wasn't so easily fooled. She was so unlike Sherlock in the way that she could not simply ignore feelings and emotions. When I could avoid her gaze no longer, her eyes found mine again and the concern within them caused the remaining walls and foundations I had built within myself to finally collapse completely.  
"Tell me." She whispered.  
And all at once, I felt it. I felt what it was like to fall. The world seemed to grow quiet, the light seemed to dim, as the words found their way out of my mouth. And all the while I felt as if I was falling.  
"I'm in love with you."


	18. Chapter 18

**Mia**

Time ceased to exist; the world began to slow. I could hear nothing but the sound of our breathing; John's ragged and mine inconsistent as we both temporarily forgot to refill our lungs with air. He couldn't even look at me. And that was what almost killed me; not even the fact that he was in love with me and that I was not in love with him, but the fact that he could not even look at me as he uttered the words. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to love him. I tried to summon the feelings but they did not appear within myself. I hated myself for it, hated myself more than I had ever hated myself before. Because John was a good man and he was in love with me and yet I did not feel the same because I was in love with another man who was cruel and cold and heartless and could not ever love me back. I longed to contain and restrict what I felt for Sherlock, but it was like trying to grasp smoke.  
"I do love you, John." I said, quietly, my voice breaking the silence that had long ago fallen between us and began to suffocate us. "I love you, but not in the way you want me to."  
He closed his eyes momentarily, as if allowing my words to sink in to his veins, but when he opened them again all I could see within them was hurt. I felt my heart cave in. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He just looked lost.  
"John," My voice was an urgent cry. "John, please."  
"No, no it's fine," He choked out, his own voice sounding rusty as if he had not used it in a long while. "I'm fine. Honestly. I just...I shouldn't have said anything. It was stupid. I'm stupid."  
"You're not stupid at all." I told him indignantly. "You're one of the most intelligent people I know."  
He smiled but his eyes remained filled with sadness. They were like water, reflections dancing across their surface. If they hadn't have been tears, I would have thought they were beautiful.  
"Mia, you don't have to attempt to console me. I never...I never expected anything." He attempted to lighten his tone, but his laughter was hollow like an empty echo. "I don't know why I was foolish to think you might actually be in love with me."  
I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear his sadness. It drowned me, filling me with despair at the fact that there was no way of undoing what I had done. In that moment, I just wanted to hold him. To be close to him. He was so broken and so lost.  
"John, you are the most wonderful person I know." There were tears in my eyes and I hated myself for it; I had no right to cry, no right at all. "I-I'm so sorry. I owe you so much; I owe you the world for all you have done for me. I wish I could but I can't. I just can't. I'm so sorry."  
He nodded, as if he understood. But it did nothing to prevent the ache that had begun to linger in my veins, gradually crushing my heart and suffocating my lungs. I couldn't bear it.  
"Will you let me hold you?" I asked.  
"No." He whispered. A pained expression flooded across his face. "If I touch you, if you hold me, I can't - I won't...it will just be too hard."  
I nodded without saying another word and our possible words succumbed to silence once again. John raked a hand through his hair, something I noticed he did whenever he was distressed.  
"God." He muttered, under his breath. "Oh God. Everything is so messed up."  
I could not bear to see him look so unhappy, so weary, as if he had given up all hope on the world. Before I could stop myself, I leaned closer towards him and kissed his cheek. It was a timid kiss but it caused colour to flood into his cheeks all the same. He glanced at me in slight amusement and I breathed a sigh of relief for it was the first time since we had first spoken that I had seen a dim sort of light illuminate his irises.  
We fell silent again but it was not so much a silence filled with sadness, but a silence filled with understanding. We understood each other. And somehow it seemed as if we had grown even closer. I knew then that John was my best friend, the only friend I'd ever really had. I cared about him too much to ever risk losing him by telling Sherlock how I felt. I could not imagine how John would feel if he ever saw Sherlock and I together. It would kill him and then it would kill me.  
"John, I don't want to lose you." I whispered, suddenly.  
He looked at me in surprise. "You won't. You could never push me away."  
"Promise?"  
"Promise."


	19. Chapter 19

**Note:** Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, love hearing feedback so please continue to write comments etc. 6000+ views, I can't believe it!

**Sherlock**

Miss Adler, just as I had presumed, did not simply allow our previous meeting to end with cold words. I had arrived back at 221B from the morgue at roughly one o'clock in the morning after spending hours attempting to salvage any possible evidence I could obtain from the envelopes Moriarty had sent. I actually spent the majority of that time lost in my own thoughts, conducting little scientific research, but I told myself that all the same. I had even managed to sleep a little. Six hours straight. Almost like another mere mortal. I awoke at five AM feeling oddly refreshed, though if there was any chance of John questioning me I knew that I would deny this and claim that sleeping only made me feel incredibly lazy and consequently incredibly ordinary.  
When I walked into the kitchen, the sun was just beginning to rise. The sky was a crescendo of colour; pink and blue and purple and red. If I was the sort of person to appreciate scenery - I wasn't - I would probably have stopped to admire it. Instead, I went to brew a cup of strong black coffee to help me think. But the envelope stopped me.  
Within the first five seconds of looking at it, I thought it may be another of Moriarty's letters. It certainly looked the same; plain white, no writing on its front, sealed in exactly the same way. But, examining it closer, I smelt the faint scent of perfume. Her perfume. I breathed it in deeply before I could prevent myself from doing so. I did not wish to open it. In fact, just looking at it filled me silmutaenously with both dread and resentment. But it was not in my nature to leave a letter unopened. I had to know its contents, had to read the words it contained. My mind could simply not rest without its knowlege. Her handwriting was just as I had remembered it - even the black ink from the very same pen she had used - and just looking at it made something within me clench tightly.

**My little detective,**  
**It was a pleasure to see you the other day, although something tells me you didn't quite feel the same. **

**You made it quite clear you do not wish to see me again, but something has come up and it is quite urgent. Your brother agrees, though don't let that prevent you from coming to see me again.**  
**Meet me at one. I'll be waiting.**  
**Bring your little friends too, if they must come.**

"Sherlock?"  
The piece of paper fell from my hands. I bent down to pick it up, all the while attempting to calm my racing heart.  
"Must you sneak up on people like that?" I grumbled.  
Mia frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."  
"You didn't scare me," I said, coldly. "You could never scare me."  
Her eyes flickered with hurt but it lingered only for a moment before it descended into emptiness, forgotten.  
"Is the letter from her?" She asked, quietly.  
I sighed heavily. "I presume by "her" you mean Miss Adler, if so then yes. It is from her."  
"I thought you said you'd never go back there."  
I stared at her. "I don't recall ever saying such a thing to you."  
"You muttered it under your breath in the taxi on our way home." She shrugged. "I've noticed you do it a lot...talk to yourself, I mean. It's as if you're in your own world half the time."  
"You really are beginning to sound more and more like Molly." I muttered. She opened her mouth, most probably to question who exactly Molly was but I did not care to answer such a trivialty and so I broke in first. "My skull just doesn't seem to suffice as a companion and John is distracted these days. It makes it difficult and so I have taken to talking to myself."  
She was silent for a moment, a flush of colour staining her cheeks, and when she spoke again her eyes were wide with a fearful hope. "You could talk to me."  
I stared at her for a long moment. There were dark circles under her eyes, suggesting that she hadn't slept well the previous night. But her eyes were strangely alert, green in colour. They reminded me of sea glass. Her hair was tangled over her shoulders, unbrushed and unkempt. I swallowed hard.  
"Why are you up so early, anyway?" I queried, deliberately avoiding her question, and turned to resume making my cup of coffee. I set out an extra cup, despite the fact she had not asked for one.  
"Couldn't sleep." She answered, absent-mindedly. "I was thinking."  
"Thinking about what?" I asked, before I could stop myself. I had hoped the sound of the teaspoon stirring against the china would drown out my voice but it did not.  
"The past, mostly." She said. "You know. Regrets."  
"Regret." My voice was bitter. "I don't believe in regret."  
She stared at me. "You don't regret anything?"  
I shook my head. "There's really no point in regret. If I allowed myself to regret, I would be doing myself no favours."  
"And why would that be?" She asked.  
"Are you always this curious?" I questioned, though my mouth betrayed a faint smile.  
She shrugged, by way of answering.  
"What I do...who I am...it causes a lot of regret." I said, quietly. "People killed. People hurt. People broken. I can't risk thinking about it all. It's too much. Too painful." I swallowed. "It's getting harder. I used to be able to look past it all without a second thought but now...now I have to really force myself to simply not care. It's hard. I think it's John's influence; he taught me to care too much."  
"I wouldn't be so sure." She said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.  
I stared at her in surprise, half expecting her to hurriedly apologise with flushed cheeks and an awkward explanation, but she said nothing. Her words sounded as if she was angry, but when I looked at her all I saw was sadness. I was about to say something, anything at all, when John entered the kitchen.  
"I'm beginning to think you and James Moriarty are closer friends than you let on." He remarked, dryly, gesturing to the opened envelope.  
I sighed. "It wasn't sent by him."  
He rolled his eyes. "Mycroft?"  
I shook my head and it almost pained me to say her name out loud, as if I were admitting my deepest darkest fear. "Irene Adler."  
His face darkened instantly, considering the fact he had not exactly been in a particularly wonderful mood before. "You're both down here at six o'clock in the morning discussing a letter that has been sent by her." He sighed, heavily. "I knew it was a mistake. I should have just ignored your voices."  
I smiled, tightly. "Believe me, John, I wish I did not have to discuss her but I'm afraid I don't think this letter can simply be overlooked."  
He glanced over at Mia, who was watching him cryptically. They seemed to say something through the silence that suspended between them, their eyes saying more than words ever could. And then he tore his gaze away from her and shook his head.  
"No. I'm not doing it." He walked over to the doorway. "Whatever it is, I'm done. Finished."  
"John." Mia's voice was tender, concerned, but not enough for him to remain in the room any longer.  
"I'm tired, Sherlock," His voice was weary with frustration and bottled anger that he had had to mask for so long. "So sick and tired of it all."  
I watched him ascend the stairs, unable to fathom words of any kind, and then looked at Mia who was staring after him. She looked lost.  
"What happened?" I asked.  
She closed her eyes, as if she couldn't bear to answer.  
"Did he -" I swallowed hard. Just saying the words out loud suddenly seemed like the hardest thing in the world but somehow I managed to speak. "Did he kiss you?"  
She shook her head, but her eyes remained closed.  
"No," She said, quietly. "I think I hurt him."  
"Brilliant." I exclaimed. The sarcasm in my voice caused her to wince slightly. "I'm glad you've succeeded in both breaking John's heart and causing his refusement to continue on in our ongoing investigation."  
"I'm sorry."  
Her voice was so fragile that I couldn't muster the strength to be cruel. It was as if the mere sound of her voice had the ability to melt the ice that froze my soul. That thought alone terrified me.  
"I suppose you'll have to accompany me to see Miss Adler as John's replacement," I said nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fact that she was on the verge of breaking down into tears. "Try and get some sleep for now. I'll wake you up when we have to leave."  
I did not wait for her to answer, knowing that it was dangerous to even be around her when she was so vunerable. Her vunerability did things to me; made me feel things. I couldn't take the risk. I couldn't forget that she was a girl who had the ability to make me fall apart completely. And so I did not hold her in my arms or try to comfort her, instead I walked out of the kitchen just as John had done and disappeared into the other room. Only moments later, when she was sure I was far away enough not to hear, she began to cry.


	20. Chapter 20

**John**

I was lost in a state of darkness. All around me were figments of light and yet all I could was dim and extinguish them all. I tried to tell myself to stop all of this nonsense, but suddenly it all just seemed so hard. I had made a mess of everything in my life that I deemed important. Louise was falling apart. Sherlock and I no longer knew how to be around each other. And Mia...Mia cared about me, but not in the way I longed for her to, and consequently I had pushed her away. I succeeded in pushing all of them away, yet I had never wanted them to leave me. In the depths of my heart, I did not want to be alone. I couldn't bear the thought of the darkness that had come to consume every inch of my mind. It suffocated me, blinded me, until I could barely feel or see anything else at all.  
I had never felt so alone in my life.

**Mia**

The front door had closed; the darkness outside had subsided, replaced with the first shafts of sunlight long ago. I no longer sat in the kitchen weeping, with my head buried into my arms. Time had passed. A substantial amount of it. And yet the hollow ache in my chest had not.  
I could hear no sounds from John's room, just the occasional hitch of his breath which suggested that he was sleeping. I was in Sherlock's room, lost to the empty whispers of my own thoughts. Sherlock himself had left long ago without offering an explanation as to where he was going. A part of me was glad for that; he did not wish to trouble himself with my meaningless emotions and I did not wish for him to see me cry.  
Sleep had evaded me long ago. I longed for the nights in which my head could be lost to dreams when now it was plagued only by nightmares. Most nights I dreamt of him; the man in black. The man with the blade. The man with black holes for eyes. I never awoke screaming, just whimpering or even crying softly. The dreams were so vivid, so real, that they drained and disabled me from being able to express my emotions conspicuously. Of course I could have confided in John with these dreams, but that was no longer an option. And Sherlock would only laugh, I was sure of it. Just knowing that I could not talk to anybody about these dreams and that I consequently had to remain silent only made them worse, as if Moriarty himself somehow knew how my mere recollection of him haunted me.  
There was a small table by Sherlock's bed, where I now sat. Placed on top of it was a file that I recognised from the stacks I had found downstairs in Mrs Hudson's living room. It was black, less weightier than the others, which instantly ignited my curiosity. Desperate to distract myself from my own dark thoughts I opened the file and began to read it, wanting to get lost into the thoughts of somebody elses' for a little while...

* * *

**"THE REICHENBACH FALL"**

He told me he was a liar. A fraud. And in one swift movement he crushed my heart, my sanity, my entire existence. He was just standing there, above, and I was elsewhere. So far away. So unable to do anything but watch. I think that was the worst part - seeing it happen and being unable to stop it. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to know. And that fact alone...I can't bear it.  
Everyday is a struggle. It is a struggle to do even the most mundane of things. For the most part, I question why I even bother to get out of bed in the mornings. There just seems to be no point, now that he is gone. And doing nothing only causes my state of mind to worsen, as it causes me to be left alone with my own thoughts. It is ridiculous, but I go through every situation and analyse every conversation in my mind to attempt to find where I failed to see what was happening. But I find nothing. The deductions...the scientific knowlege...the genius...how could it have all been a lie? But more importantly...how could he have lied to me? I do not flatter myself in thinking I was an incredibly significant part of Sherlock's life - how could I have been, when I was nothing but an ordinary human being? - but I was certainly and undeniably a part of it. Despite it all, I cannot simply tell myself that what he said was true. He was not a fraud. He was extraordinary. I cannot seem to convince myself otherwise.  
He was my best friend and I'll always believe him.

* * *

I wasn't sure how to feel. John had never spoken to me about what had happened, the event he called: "The Reichenbach Fall". Reading the file, I wasn't even sure I wanted to know. But, somehow, I felt a sudden instinct that I would someday soon. The words themselves were so raw with emotion that I could almost imagine John himself whispering them into my ear. There was an ache that had unexpectedly emerged in my chest and refused to fade. Despite not knowing them both for a long time, it was clear to see that John and Sherlock's friendship had become complicated and strained since the event had taken place. It pained me to know that they were no longer as close as they once had been. It was also clear that Sherlock felt the same, due to the fact he had obviously been reading the file. I felt the most irrevocable sense of sadness, then - as if I had been the one to lose a friend. It caused me to pity Sherlock, more than I had ever pitied him before due to the fact I had never thought there were any aspects of his life to pity him for.  
I was about to place the file back on the table - ensuring I put in it back in its exact position to prevent Sherlock from figuring out I had read it in the first place - when I saw a folded piece of paper. I opened it and found Moriarty's code scribbled multiple times and scattered around the page. I had looked at my own copy of the code for so long that I already knew it by heart.  
**DOC45M706**  
I sighed. Sherlock's scrawled handwriting itself seemed to suggest his frustration at not being able to firgure it out. It was so ironic that my father had been skilled in deciphering codes and that I had never thought or cared enough to ask him to teach me...  
My father.  
Something within my mind shifted. Despite the fact I could see the code itself etched into the darkness whenever I closed my eyes, I grabbed the piece of paper and inspected it carefully. I stared at the numbers and letters on the page.  
Think. I told myself. Just think.  
There was something about the code that seemed familiar. I had seen it before. But, how? I forced myself to concentrate.  
**DOC.**  
Document. It had to stand for document. I was sure of it. When I was little - before he became paranoid about possible intruders and consequently fitted the room with a lock - I liked to explore my father's office. I remembered now clearly, despite not having set foot in there for years. It had smelt very much like 221B - musty, like a library. And there had been a map of the world pinned up on the wall, marking the places he had been to before with drawing pins. Before he became a politician, my father had been a traveller. Thinking about it now, it is almost impossible to believe. My mother showed me photographs once. She told me that she met my father in Mexico. They both suffered from wanderlust, an urge to travel and explore the world. I think that was partly why my mother felt so trapped. While my father matured and changed, she remained the same. I had loved that map because it almost seemed like the part of my father that had been lost long ago. But aswell as the map, there were files. Documents. Pieces of paper that littered every inch of the room. They were each labelled with those three letters: DOC and then a series of numbers and letters that followed. Those were secret. He hid those just as he hid his past from us.  
"What does it mean?"  
His voice was barely even a whisper and yet the sudden sound of it made my heart lurch. Sherlock stood in the doorway, half of his face shadowed and the other half lit. His silver eyes found mine and I had to look away.  
"You really need to stop doing that." I mumbled, feeling my cheeks flush.  
"Doing what?" He inquired, with a raised eyebrow.  
"Turning up unexpectedly and scaring me." I was a little breathless, and I wasn't sure if that was because he had frightened me or because there was not a lot of distance that seperated us.  
"I make you scared?" He asked, a sudden glint in his eye.  
"Yes..no...I don't know." I hated the effect he had on me, the way his lips would curl into a half-smile whenever I blushed or said something foolish.  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "You were examining the code?"  
"Yes." I bit my lip. "I-I think I've found something."  
"Well of course you've founded something," He said, matter of factly. "It's written all over your face. I noticed it as soon as I came in. The question is, what is it exactly that you've found?"  
I swallowed. "I recognise it. The code, I mean. It's in the same format as the documents my father used to keep at home. They were confidential documents, all with the same amount of letters and numbers, and each of them meant something."  
"So," Sherlock paused for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts. "This code that Moriarty has given us is a confidential document meant only for the eyes of members of the British goverment."  
"It would appear so. But how would he get hold of it?"  
He frowned. "The question is not how but why. There is no question how Moriarty could obtain such a document - he is James Moriarty, possibly the world's most dangerous criminal. He is able to get hold of any document he so wishes to obtain."  
"Fine. Why?"  
"That is what I intend to find out." Sherlock answered, his tone slightly cryptic. "Until then, we have an appointment with Miss Adler. I assume that you're ready?"  
I glanced over to the wall for a clock but did not find one. Of course, Sherlock did not concern himself with trivialties such as the measure of time.  
"Is it one o'clock already?" I asked, surprised.  
"No," He said. "But I am in no mood to wait that long. Besides, it has never been in Miss Adler's nature to comply by the rules so I hardly think it matters."  
I nodded, wordlessly, and our words descended into silence. I was unsure of why I suddenly felt so empty. I felt Sherlock's eyes search my own.  
"You're sad." He stated, flatly.  
I could not even muster the energy to pretend. "Yes."  
"You're sad because of John."  
"How -"  
"Your heart is painted on your face. It's clear you're sad because he is sad."  
I opened my mouth to argue, but he stopped me.  
"John will be alright." He said, quietly, though something in his voice told me that he was trying to reassure himself aswell as me. "He always is."


	21. Chapter 21

**Note: **Sorry for the short chapter, have so much coursework. Attempting to balance school and fanfiction! Keep reviewing xxx

**Sherlock**

A text sent by Miss Adler dictated to meet her in Portobello Road. I did not reply - I never did. Still, her text irritated me. It seemed as if she knew I would not wait until one o'clock, as if she was well aware of my impatience. I hated the thought of her knowing such things about me. I had already grown close to her before and it had almost consequently broken me. Not to mention threaten the safety of the entire country.  
Mia was surprisingly quiet throughout the duration of the cab journey. I knew that there were questions she wished to ask but it seemed as if John's despondency had become the direct cause of her own. Miss Adler had not specified an exact meeting place, but the cab drew to a halt outside a small cafe of which a woman stood in front of. She was tall, dressed entirely in black, a cigarette between her blood red lips. She wore sunglasses despite the fact there was no sunlight, though I supposed this to be because she did not wish to be seen.  
"Sherlock. Amelia." She greeted us with a light kiss on each cheek. As soon as she leant in close, I caught the scent of her perfume. Strong. Potent. Almost intoxicating. I half expected to find a smeared imprint on Mia's cheek but her skin remained unblemished.  
"I don't recall Mia ever telling you her full name." I said, ignoring her greeting.  
She parted her lips. The smoke from her cigarette escaped from them in a slow and deliberate waves.  
"She did not tell me, your brother did."  
"You and my brother seem awfully friendly these days," I said, coldly. "Don't tell me you're considering becoming part of his cabinet?"  
"Mr Holmes I can assure you, my only interests in politics are the politicians themselves...if you do recall my last reported scandal." Her mouth curled into a smile as Mia, beside me, stiffened. "Shall we have coffee?"  
"I don't care for coffee. Only when I am planning to spend a considerable amount of time in one place."  
"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "And is that not the case now?"  
"It is not," I answered. "I came only to hear what you have to say. It is clear you have some news of importance, or so I hope. If you could state it concisely without rambling any other unnessecary information it would be most obliged."  
Miss Adler's smile faltered somewhat though she was able to mask it quickly. "I've heard from James."  
Something in my expression must have changed because her eyes instantly appeared to light up, her lips tightening into another smile of satisfaction.  
"Jim?" I frowned. "I thought you might, sooner or later. And what did this correspondence entail exactly?"  
Despite the fact she was wearing dark glasses which made it almost impossible to see, a light within her eyes appeared to fade. "A threat."  
"What did he threaten?" Mia asked, suddenly, the only words she had spoken since we had arrived.  
Miss Adler looked at her, as if only just realising that she had been standing there the entire time. Something about the way her lips curled in disdain when she looked at her made me want to clench my fists together tightly to prevent myself from confronting her.  
"He told me that he was coming for me," Her voice was quiet. Afraid. She took another drag of her cigarette, only just remembering that it was still smouldering between her fingertips, and then promptly crushed it onto the cold concrete below. "He told me that he wants to hurt me."  
"Well I can think of many plausible reasons why any number of people would wish to hurt you," I mused aloud. "But I cannot think of any that would concern Jim Moriarty."  
"Please, Sherlock." She said and there was a deep urgency within her voice. "I need your help. I need..." She swallowed. "I need you."  
It seemed so long ago now. So long ago that it almost resembled a distant memory. She had asked for my help and I had been unable to decline. I had never cared about a person before, only John who was my friend. But she had made me feel things. And she had told me that she had also. But to this day I was still clueless as to if that had all been just another part of her intricate spiderweb of lies.  
I glanced at Mia to see if she had observed my sudden silence, but her gaze was elsewhere. When I turned back, Miss Adler's gaze had not moved an inch remaining on mine.  
"Will you protect me?" She asked.  
"I can't promise that." I said.  
She leant in closer again. Her eyes masked by darkness, lips pursed as her words escaped from them in the form of a whisper.  
"You will protect me, Mr Holmes, and in return I will protect you."  
I laughed humourlessly. "I don't need protection, Miss Adler, and if I did I would most certainly not seek it from you."  
Her smile lacked warmth, mirroring my own laughter. "I wouldn't speak so soon, Mr Holmes. There will come a day when you need me."  
"I highly doubt that," I stifled a yawn. "Now will that be all? I have critical research to attend to."  
I did not wait for Miss Adler to respond, instead gestured for Mia to follow and hailed yet another cab. I did not look back until we were driving away from the curb. Her gaze remained fixed on mine until she was nothing but a shadow in the distance.


	22. Chapter 22

**Mia**

We had been sitting in the cab for quite some time before a sudden revelation found Sherlock, igniting a spark of energy within him that contrasted considerably with his cool manner when speaking to Irene Adler. Sherlock's eyes were alight with the kind of excitement a child might posess on Christmas Eve. As soon as the cab halted by the concrete curb, he paid the driver his fare in the form of a twenty pound note (far too much considering the short distance we had travelled) and hurried up the stairs of 221B so fast that I could barely keep up with his pace. He pushed open the door to find John lying on Mrs Hudson's floral-patterned sofa, an unfolded newspaper across his eyes as if to block out the impending light from the window.  
"John!" He cried, despite the fact I was pretty certain the sound of our footsteps on the stairs had already awoken him.  
John's murmured reply was weary, tinted with irritance. "I was asleep, Sherlock."  
"Oh John, now is no time for sleeping." Sherlock stole the newspaper he had been using to shade his eyes and grinned. "I have news. Wonderful news."  
He frowned. "Your so-called news never really transpires to be wonderful. Can't it wait? I'm tired and -"  
"Moriarty has been in touch with Miss Adler." Sherlock interrupted, impatiently.  
I glanced at him curiously. This fact had not exactly struck such enthusiasm in him earlier.  
"Brilliant." He muttered, in reply. "Can I go back to sleep now?"  
"Don't you get it, John?" Sherlock groaned in frustration. "He has threatened her and in consequence she has asked us to protect her. Now we can obtain the information we need to find him, the information we need in order to figure out his plans!"  
"And how exactly does that work?" John muttered, snatching back the newspaper Sherlock had stolen.  
The light within Sherlock's eyes dimmed slightly, as if he was disappointed by John's sceptism.  
"If Moriarty has threatened her, it means he wants something from her. Miss Adler can agree to aid him and silmutaenously inform us of his actions." He smiled and I saw that his eyes were lit up with hope like fireworks exploding amongst the darkness. "We can _find_ him, John. We can find him and stop him."  
John looked from Sherlock to me and back again. His eyes remained flat, dull, as if all faint traces of happiness had been drained from them. His eyes were bloodshot, skin pale, face washed of colour.  
"That's great." He answered, monosyllabically, though his tone suggested that he thought otherwise. "Really great."  
"What's the matter, John?" Sherlock's tone was impatient. Exasperated.  
"Nothing's the matter." He replied, sourly.  
"Your eyes are bloodshot from crying and, judging from the dark circles underneath them, sleep deprivation. You haven't taken a shower in days; you're still dressed in the clothes you wore yesterday. And you're angry with me. There really isn't any point in denial, so you may aswell inform us of the cause of your despondency."  
John glanced at me. I bit my lip.  
"Sherlock, perhaps he doesn't want to talk about it."  
"No," Sherlock said. "John has decided to be in a bad mood so let's hear the reason. It's obviously something that's hurting you, affecting your motivation to solve this case, so just tell us."  
"I don't have to tell you anything," John spat. "I don't _want_ to tell you anything. You want to know why I've lost the motivation to solve this case? I don't care. I don't care about it anymore, Sherlock, any of it. I'm tired of pretending that we have any remnants of a friendship anymore."  
Sherlock stared at him. Something in his expression faltered and then crumbled. I had never seen him look like that before, as if everything was slowly falling apart before his eyes. I couldn't bear it.  
"John, stop it. Please don't -" I cried, my tone pleading, but he just got up from where he had been lying on the sofa and pushed past us both to walk out of the door.  
Sherlock's voice stopped him. "What is this about, John?"  
His reply made my heart ache. "You, Sherlock. This is about _you_. It's about the fact that you broke my fucking heart. The fact you made me watch you jump from that building. The fact that you made me believe you were dead, let me believe it for months, when all along it was just a lie. You were my best friend and you ruined it. You've ruined everything."  
There were tears in his eyes. Silence descended, but it did nothing to drown out John's words of anger. They hung in the air, suffocating us, draining our lungs of air as they slowly began to crush them. It was Sherlock's silence that pained me the most. The way he looked at him and could say nothing at all.  
"I'm moving out." John said, finally, breaking the silence that had fallen. He was calmer now, though his words did not hurt any less. "I can't - I can't be here anymore. I'm just so tired of it all."  
He walked out of the room. I reached out for him, but it was like trying to grasp smoke with my bare hands. Impossible. Pointless. A moment later we heard the door close quietly behind him. When I finally gathered the courage to look at Sherlock again, I felt every remaining inch of composure within me crumble. He looked so lost.  
"Sherlock." My voice was cautious. I feared if I said anything more I would fall apart completely.  
"It's my fault." He whispered. His pain was almost tangible; his hurt filled the room so that it felt as if I was drowning amongst the waves of his sadness.  
"This isn't your fault," I said, quietly. "John was angry. He didn't mean it."  
He smiled faintly, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and slowly released the breath he had been holding in. He began to pace up and down, as if the continuous movement would stop him from falling apart. "It is my fault; everything is my fault. I should never have lied to John...never have pushed him away."  
"Stop, Sherlock, look at me." I grabbed his arms, overcome by a sudden surge of courage I never knew existed within myself, causing him to stare at me in surprise.  
"You had to." I said firmly. "I don't know exactly what happened but I know that you would never have done that if you didn't have to."  
He closed his eyes momentarily, pain flooding across his face. I felt him trembling beneath my touch.  
"I thought I had to...but now I'm not so sure. John's right, I've ruined everything. There's nothing left."  
"Sherlock, you haven't ruined anything. Without you, everything would fall apart." Suddenly I was urgent for him to believe me, to smile again, but his smile was worn with sadness.  
"Mia, everything _is_ falling apart." He said, softly.  
There was a long silence. Sherlock leant in closer towards me slightly. I reached up and pulled my arms around him, wanting to secure him. His arms were wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer and closer, until there was no distance that could seperate us at all. I leant against his chest, the faint lull of his heartbeat soothing and reassuring me. He smelt faintly of pine needles and soap. I closed my eyes and lowered my voice to a whisper.  
"I'm here. If you just let me in, I'm here."


	23. Chapter 23

Note: I got my Sherlock casebook today, literally made my day! Inspired me to write this chapter. Sorry for late update, will try to write more regularly.

**John**

I began to pack my belongings, everything that had once held such meaning to be but now, looking at them all, meant absolutely nothing. I recalled a lot of things belonging to me to be missing - Sherlock liked to take things to experiment on without warning or apology - and though it had once irritated me, I could not even muster the energy to care. There was a hollow ache in the pit of my stomach, emphasising the emptiness I felt inside even further. My throat hurt from unspoken words and consequent regret. And yet I could not swallow my pride, apologise for my cruel words and admit that there was no real meaning behind them. It was too late for that. It was all too late.  
I did not even hear the footsteps behind me. Only the voice that caused me to jolt, as if trapped in a hazed dream that alone I was unable to awake from. My heart clenched tightly against my chest hoping that it was Sherlock, almost pleading, but it was only Mrs Hudson.  
"Going somewhere?" Was all she said, but the hurt in her eyes somehow spoke more than words ever could.  
I heaved a sigh. "Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry I didn't inform you sooner. This was a...spur of the moment decision, you could say."  
"Spur of the moment." She repeated my words, as if she was having difficulties processing them.  
"Yes." I mumbled.  
I had never seen Mrs Hudson wear such a forlorn expression. She was always so carefree, so happy, with constant light in her eyes. It physically pained me to know that I was the cause of her despondency.  
"John, you have lived in Baker Street now for almost two years and you are going to leave because of a "spur of the moment decision"," She frowned. "Don't you need more time to ensure it's what you really want?"  
"I'm tired of waiting, Mrs Hudson. I always wait for something to happen and look what happens - I end up miserable. No. I need to leave now, before I find myself tied down again."  
"And what is it exactly that caused this sudden revelation?" Her tone was tinted with sarcasm, very unusual for her character.  
I was silent for a moment, lost in my own thoughts. I was unsure as to what it was exactly that has caused me to come to this conclusion. This final conclusion. It was Mia because she did not feel anything for me despite the fact I was in love with her and I did not know how to cope with that. It was Louise and the fact that she was broken, lost, alone and that it was my fault because I had made her that way. And it was Sherlock, the fact I kept hurting him to mirror the pain he had caused me. I couldn't deal with it all. I felt as if everything was broken and I couldn't fix it, no matter how hard I tried. It reminded me of a quote I had read once in a book, The Great Gatsby to be exact.  
"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart and all they can do is stare blankly."  
"John?" Mrs Hudson's voice broke me from my thoughts, concern in her eyes.  
"I've pushed everyone away. I've ruined it all." I felt my heart fall through my chest, as if simply admitting the words out loud confirmed the fact that they were a part of reality. My voice became a strangled whisper. "I've lost everything."  
Her arms enveloped me. Comforted me. She smelt of polo mints, lavender washing powder and the musty books that seemed to clutter every inch of 221B. I had to bite my tongue to force myself not to cry. The sudden presence of another person was suddenly too much, as if we both shared my problems and I was no longer alone.  
"I don't know what to do." I choked out.  
"Sherlock is your friend." She said, softly. "This is only temporary. All friends have fallings out. It's perfectly normal -"  
"No, this isn't temporary." I cried, angrily. "It's been here for months; this feeling. It's like darkness has overshadowed everything within me and I just feel so hopeless all the time. So lost. And I'm angry, so angry, and all I can do is bottle it up inside. I'm hurting and there's not a soul who can make the pain go away."  
"You have people, John," She was really worried now, her eyes were filled with fear. "You have Sherlock, you have Mia and you have me. We're your friends. We can help you."  
"No." I whispered, all traces of anger from my voice gone. I felt as if all the anger and pain and bitterness had won and all I could do was let it infiltrate my soul as I felt myself slowly begin to wither. I leant against the wall, suddenly losing my ability to hold myself up. I no longer had the energy. The motivation to pretend that everything was okay when really everything was breaking. I allowed myself to sink slowly to the floor. Hopeless. "No. You can't help me. No one can."  
I closed my eyes until I smelt her familiar scent again. She attempted to cradle me in her arms but I pulled away.  
"No," I choked out, my throat thick with the refusal of allowing myself to cry. "Don't."  
"Oh, John." She reached out to me again, her arms pulling me close.  
"No." I whispered, but I could no longer resist. I allowed her to hold me properly and in doing so allowed the tears to fall. I tried to remain as silent as I could but, before I could stop myself, I choked out a strangled sob and Mrs Hudson held me tighter.  
"Oh, John," She whispered into my hair and I wanted to remain in that moment forever, knowing nothing but her arms. Nothing but the silence that drowned out my cries and blurred the past so that I could forget for a little while.  
"It's going to be okay." She said, softly. "It's all going to be okay."  
My eyes remained closed as I longed to believe her, her words causing my heart to ache with sorrow, but even in my state of despair I could find no hope. No light amongst the darkness.

**Sherlock**

Mia was illuminated in the amber glow of a streetlamp outside. My hands were tangled around her waist, her arms around my shoulders. She was holding me, preventing me from falling apart completely.  
"I'm here for you. If you just let me in, I'm here."  
Her voice was barely more than a whisper and yet it lit my heart up. In that moment I could think nothing of James Moriarty and his threats or even the fact that John and I's friendship lay in ruins. All I could think about was the rise and fall of her chest against mine, the erratic beat of her heart, the sea green veins beneath the pale of her skin that almost resembled constellations. I withdrew slightly. I knew that all I had to do was give in. Give in to every rule, every boundry, I had ever enforced within my heart. I was so close to giving in and that prospect alone was enough to fill me with terror and wonder and guilt and longing...  
It came back to me before I had time to fully register what was happening. I pushed her away as I hard as I could, so hard I was sure I had hurt her. My heart was beating so hard against my chest it almost hurt, a dull ache in the pit of my chest. My breathing was heavy, ragged, each exhalation of breath a relief. When my vision finally restored itself we were distanced again. I had stumbled to the other side of the room, my back pressing against the wall so that we were as far apart as we could possibly be. She was staring at me, her eyes wide with confusion.  
"I need to continue my research," My voice shook slightly as I spoke, but I attempted to mask it with a blank expression. "You should go."  
Something within her face flickered and then caused it to crumple completely. The hurt in her eyes was almost tangible as she walked out of the room and left me alone without saying another word, her silence infinitely worse than any words she could ever have spoken. As soon as her footsteps faded, I headed upstairs to the bathroom and began to run the shower. I peeled off my clothes and stepped in, praying that the sound of the rushing water would drown out my thoughts completely.  
The water was so cold that it hurt as it drenched my skin, but I didn't care. The cold gave me something to concentrate on, helped to numb the madness that had begun to consume every inch of my mind. I leant my head against the cool tiles of the wall and kept my eyes closed tightly for a moment. Don't think, I told myself. So long as I don't think or feel, I will be fine and everything will return to how it was. But I knew that I was lying to myself. No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to forget...to forget her. She was constantly in my mind, a light dimmed by my reluctance to let her glow. And day after day she was right there in front of me, not just an image in my head, and the sight of her physically pained me. It pained me to know that I could not look at her and pretend my feelings didn't exist, when they did. These vivid feelings, filled with colour and vibrancy, that reduced me to pieces; a hollow, empty ache in my chest. Because she was not mine and she never would be and I could not do a single thing to change that.


	24. Chapter 24

**John**

Though every inch of my body was worn with exhaustion, I was having difficulties sleeping. I would lie there and listen to the sound of the rain to lull me to sleep. The fog of sleep would descend. I would begin to drift away into a different world until my heart would lurch all of a sudden, my thoughts consumed by sudden darkness, and I would not be able to sleep again.  
Now it was eight o'clock, early by anyone else's standards, and I was clutching the sheets to my chest hoping that it would somehow force sleep upon my body. It didn't. Exasperated, I stepped out of my bedroom and listened carefully. Nothing. No sound of Sherlock's violin or the traces of Mia's faint voice or even the sound of Mrs Hudson's French classical vinyl records she liked to play continuously. I half wondered if they had all gone out but I had never heard the sound of the front door close. Perturbed, I descended the stairs to find no rooms lit. It seemed everyone had decided to take an early night, until I saw the scrawled note on the small table by the door.

* * *

**John, Sherlock and Mia,**  
**I have gone to see a play with Camilla - you remember Camilla, don't you Sherlock? You once prevented her cat from being abducted by a Polish gangster who intended to blackmail her for a large sum of money in return for her husband's bank details. Anyway, I plan to be back tomorrow some time around noon as Milla has kindly invited me to stay at her house tonight. Be good all of you, I don't want any trouble.**  
**Love, Martha x**

* * *

A while ago I might have smirked at Mrs Hudson's anecdote about Sherlock's battle with a Polish gangster, its primary cause a cat, but now I simply crumpled the note up and left it where it had been carefully placed. I did not bother to put on a coat, instead stepping straight out onto Baker Street in nothing but my thin jumper and the tattered jeans that had seen better days. It was not late, but the sky was already deep blue. The air smelt of Autumn.  
I headed to the first bar I could find. It was a mere two streets away. Normally I preferred to find a bar far away from Baker Street, longing to get away from it for a little while, but today I could not find the energy to do so. I headed straight inside, knowing I would probably not even remember its name in the morning. I cared nothing for small seemingly insignificant details whereas if Sherlock had been here, he would probably have deduced the character of its owner simply by its peeling paint.  
The bar was thick with the lingering scent of smoke, barely lit and consequently very dark and shadowed. Nobody looked at me as I walked in, they were too engrossed in their own conversations. Their own lives. I was not sure whether that fact alone filled me with relief or despair.  
I took my seat at the bar, ordering a double shot of whiskey and then another. I waited for the haze of alcohol to descend into my veins, but I felt numb. I ordered a scotch and then a humble pint but, still, nothing. I was too unhappy. Too lost. It seemed that alcohol could no longer tame my sorrowing heart or suppress my hurt.  
I walked out of the bar feeling as hopeless as I had felt when first entering it. Rain was beginning to fall. I swore under my breath and was just about to continue on my way home to the drudgery that faced me, when a voice stopped me.  
"Little early to be drinking, isn't it?"  
The voice was lilting, tinted with an Irish accent, and ultimately familiar.  
"It's a little early to be standing on darkened street corners." I answered, my voice cold.  
He chuckled under his breath and stepped into the light of a streetlamp so that his face was no longer shadowed. He looked just as I had remembered him; dressed in a sharp suit, hair neatly slicked back, eyes ablaze with the promise of a storm. I felt my heart lurch. Jim Moriarty was alive. I had seen that, from his letter, but now he stood before me and it seemed only then that I was able to truly accept that fact.  
"What's the matter, John, aren't you pleased to see me?" He asked, with feigned hurt.  
"I'd use the term 'pleased' loosely."  
"Oh don't be so demure. I know you're ecstatic that I'm back." He smiled, knowingly. "You and Sherlock both are. The world is so _dull_ without me in it..."  
"Please. Don't feel you have to contain your modesty with me." I muttered, sarcastically.  
"That's kind of you." His eyes flashed with amusement. "So what are you doing here all alone? Did you and Sherlock have a little domestic?"  
"I may be wrong," I said with as much courage as I could muster. "But I don't think that's any of your business."  
His eyes darkened and it suddenly felt as if just by doing that he had the ability to drain all the light from the world.  
"It may be my business when people are going to _die_." He said, with such force that it caused me to tremble. I stared at him, shocked, and he smiled brightly. Menacingly. "People are going to die, John. People will die and you won't be able to stop it from happening."  
"We've stopped it from happening before." My voice shook, betraying my own words. "Sherlock and I; we've saved them."  
His laughter was hollow, humourless. "Oh John your naivity really is _adorable_. There is no you and Sherlock. There never was."  
I stared at him in disbelief. "What would make you think that?"  
"I could be going out on a limb here, but Sherlock did purposely lie to you and let you watch him jump from a building, consequently proving that your friendship meant nothing to him."  
I could not argue. How could I when it was the thought that had been consuming my mind ever since I had discovered he was in fact alive?  
"I've rendered you wordless," He said, with a satisfied smile. "Normally you can never quite silence John Watson and his both hopeless and pitiful attempts at defending his _'friend'_."  
There was a dull ache in my head, blurred and faded, causing me to conclude that the alcohol had had more of an effect than I had originally thought. I tried to compose my thoughts but I suddenly felt weak and it took every inch of willpower within me not to just let myself fall to the concrete.  
"People are going to die, John." He said again, voice barely even a whisper. "They'll die because of you."  
"Because of me?" I choked out.  
He chuckled. "Yes, because of you. Most inconsiderate, really."  
A sudden surge of anger gripped my better logic. I went to punch him but only succeeded in staggering over my own feet.  
"Really, John, after serving so long in the British forces I'm surprised you don't possess a better aim."  
"_Stay. Away. From. Me_." I clenched my teeth together so hard that I was sure my gums would bleed, but I didn't care. I knew that I was giving him exactly what he wanted - emotion. He wanted my despair and anger and heartbreak and fear and by reacting to his words, I was allowing him to savour my emotion. But I couldn't stop it. My whole body was trembling and I wanted to hurt him more than I had wanted to hurt anyone before. If I had been carrying a gun, I was under no doubt that I would have pulled the trigger.  
"For now, John, for now." He said, softly, turning his back from me. "But we'll be seeing each other soon."  
I watched him walk away into the night, a shadow amongst the darkness, infuriated with the knowledge that I was absolutely powerless to stop him. I could do nothing. I _was_ nothing.


	25. Chapter 25

**Mia**

John did not move out immediately. He remained in the flat as the days blurred by - causing me to conclude that he would do so for an indefinite amount of time - though was nothing more than a shadow. I felt the strongest sense of loss whenever I found myself staring at the closed door to his bedroom or even small, insignificant things like catching sight of his coat hung up in the hall or, as it was more often, slung over the banister Mrs Hudson was endlessly caught up with her friends or her sister and, in consequence, did not return to 221B a lot of the time. Which left Sherlock and I.  
I was beginning to question how much longer I could remain in the flat myself. Now that John no longer wished to be around me or Sherlock and Sherlock found it hard himself to tolerate my presence, it seemed as if there was no longer any reason for me to stay. And yet I didn't want to leave. The thought of leaving it all behind terrified me. I had no idea what awaited me at my own flat. The man, the man that haunted every inch of my reality and every figment of my mind, knew where I lived. He would find me soon enough, I was sure of it. He had not struck me as a person who would be willing to give up so easily.  
John had helped me; saved me. But I doubted whether he cared anymore. I was a burden. I had only come between him and Sherlock. And yet there was something that worried if I left, there was nothing to prevent them both from distancing themselves completely. I had to stay. I had to fix what I had broken.  
I still thought about that night. I could still feel his arms around my waist; smell the scent of his skin. I dreamed about him most nights, when I did not dream of darkness. He had never let anybody close; John was the only exception, and I was not worthwhile to be the second. Knowing this, I felt my heart cave in whenever I looked at him. It wasn't even because I was in love with him and that he did not feel anything for him. It hurt, of course, but I had grown to care for him so much that I simply longed for him to be happy. No. It was because he was hurting and he wouldn't let me help him - I think that was the worst part of it all.  
I had come to understand that Sherlock could and would never love me. I did not think he had a heart. He was cold at times but I did not believe he was truly cruel. He simply did not know how to love another human being. After all, he was not a human himself but something else entirely. He did not belong in this world. And I think that made him lonely. But loneliness was not something he quite knew how to cope with, let alone determine, and so he masked that insecurity with hostility and coldness. It was not Sherlock's fault that he did not possess a heart. And yet even when I attempted to tell myself this fact, it still made my own heart ache.  
He had been avoiding me for days since the incident. He had almost let me in, but then the few foundations he had built crumbled and fell within moments and were replaced once again by debris and rubble and the broken remnants of a devastating destruction. Whenever we passed each other in the corridor or found ourselves in the same room, he would politely excuse himself and say nothing more. It seemed as if he wished to forget it completely...or perhaps just simply forget me. Either way, he reduced me to despair.

**Sherlock**

Gradually, as the days began to pass, things began to return to normal. Or rather, as normal as they could have been. John still refused to speak to me or even acknowledge my presence. We remained as distanced as we could possibly be remaining within the same four walls of a home that, recently, had come to feel more of a prison. I spent most of my time at the morgue, caught up in experiments and analytical forensic research, where she would not find me. Mrs Hudson fussed regularly, the little amount of time she was home, but that was to be expected. I shook her off with feeble excuses that I know she could see through but she too did not question me. Perhaps she and John had discussed the matter together. It was unlikely; I doubted whether John had even noticed at all.  
Now I stood at the window, my violin long forgotten in my hands, watching the world beneath me; the endless streams of people that passed by and the lights from car headlights that flashed so brightly only to then dissolve completely into darkness. It all seemed a million miles away from where I stood. The world below me was so small and so insignificant and yet so beautiful. For a single moment I almost forgot that things were not right, but then the sound of the door handle turning plunged me back into reality. Its mere sound was like a bomb exploding amongst the dead silence of a long forgotten battlefield. I kept my back turned, fists clenched tightly, as I waited. _Please let it be John_, I pleaded. _Please don't let it be her._  
"Sherlock?"  
And there it was - the voice that caused all the walls and foundations I had begun to build over the past few days to crumble down in an instant. The mere sound of it filled me with dread. I swallowed hard and turned around. She was wearing that nightdress again, the one that belonged to Mrs Hudson; white, patterned with flowers, ending somewhere above her knees. Her hair was messy, unkempt, as it always was.  
"Hi." She said finally. One word. A single word that somehow managed to convey both concern and tenderness.  
"Hi." I choked out. My voice sounded strange even to my own ears. I mentally cursed myself for not being able to compose myself properly.  
"Any new developments?" She asked, casually, gesturing to the scribbled notes that currently littered every available inch of the coffee table. After staring at them for an hour and a half, I had finally given up and begun playing music in hope that it would help to clear my thoughts - it hadn't worked.  
"Not as of yet." I mumbled.  
She nodded and we were reduced to silence once again. She took a few steps closer, causing the breath to catch in my throat, and took a seat in the armchair I had been sitting in. _No_, my thoughts screamed desperately, _don't sit down. You can't do this to me. Please. Please leave._  
"Am I disturbing you?" She asked.  
I wanted to tell her that she was but somehow I couldn't quite form the words. When I failed to reply, she got up from the chair and approached me. I turned from her sharply. I kept my gazed fixed on the broken streetlamp outside and watched it flicker.  
"Is there something wrong?"  
I said nothing, just shook my head, but it did nothing to convince her.  
"You can tell me," She said. Her voice was soft but it still caused me to flinch. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"  
"I'm just tired." I announced, finally having found my voice.  
"But I thought Sherlock Holmes didn't sleep?" She smiled but I did not return it. I watched it fade from her lips wordlessly. "Please just talk to me. Mrs Hudson is worried about you..." She paused as I looked up at her, I was suddenly and foolishly filled with hope that she might utter John's name, but she did not. She noticed my evident disappointment and bit her lip. "I'm worried about you."  
"There's nothing to worry about." I told her, bluntly, continuing to avoid her gaze. "Perhaps if you took the time you wasted pointlessly worrying about me and invested it in trying to find Jim Moriarty, we would progress considerably more in solving this case."  
Undeterred, despite my bluntness, she took a step closer towards me. Before I could stop myself, I glanced at her. She was staring at me, the light from the fire reflected in her eyes. I swallowed.  
"I know you're lying to me." She said, quietly. "I know that there's something wrong. You haven't spoken to me in days and you keep trying to avoid me...why won't you talk to me?"  
Something inside me snapped, causing a deep rage to swell within me. Before I could stop myself, I faced her angrily.  
"You want to know why I won't talk to you? Because I don't _want_ or _need_ to. Even if there was something wrong, you would be the last person I would ever attempt to confide in. Why would I ever want to tell you anything? You are _nothing_ to me. Nothing."  
Silence fell. Seconds passed. I waited for her face to crumple but it remained still - motionless. For a moment it felt as if the world had stopped, as if time had ceased and no longer existed. But then she closed her eyes, as if processing my words, and I realised that it couldn't be possible. When she opened her eyes again, there was no hurt or sadness or even anger; she just looked lost. I opened my mouth to say anything, anything at all to erase my cruel words, but she had already turned away from me and had begun to walk away. No sooner as I had uttered the hopeless apology "I'm sorry", the door had already closed quietly behind her shutting me out for good.


	26. Chapter 26

**John**

I found Sherlock sitting by the window with his head buried into his arms. The curtains were closed, the room enclosed in darkness; the only vague source of light filtered through the curtains, casting the illuminated shadow of the window onto the carpet. At first, I thought he was sleeping but his breathing was ragged. Despite the urgency thudding in my mind, the cold night air trapped on my bare skin and ice still freezing my heart from where he had found me and spoken to me, I was distracted momentarily. For once he did not look like the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and the only friend I had ever had and lost, but a broken man. He was shaking; each shuddering intake of breath seemed to crush his lungs and rack against his ribcage. He was not sleeping, but crying. And I had been in that state enough times to recognise when others were currently suffering it themselves. Despite all that had happened, all the words we had said and all the words we hadn't, something within my soul caused the pieces of my heart to fragment and then shatter completely. Seeing him so lost and so alone almost seemed to affect me in the same way until I was also broken. I couldn't bear it.  
"Sherlock?"  
He froze, as if the sudden sound of my voice had caused him to forget how to breathe. And then slowly he raised his head from his tangled arms and looked at me. There was something in his eyes that I had never seen before; complete and utter despair.  
"John." He choked out, his voice sounding pained and vulnerable and oddly _human_.  
"What's wrong? What's happened?" I asked. I attempted to maintain a certain composure but my voice trembled sightly, betraying the fact that I was frightened.  
He stared at me for a moment, a moment that seemed to continue infinitely, as if his eyes were searching mine for answers to questions he himself did not even know.  
"Life." He said, finally. He cleared his throat and obliterated all traces of vulnerability by brushing away his tears with the sleeve of his shirt.  
I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. How on earth was I supposed to respond to such an answer that seemed so ultimate and so forbidding and so ominous? "Don't, Sherlock." I said, feebly, as he continued to wipe away his tears. "That shirt's expensive. You said yourself once, it cost you almost three hundred pounds."  
It was such a foolish and petty and trivial comment that it caused him to look up at me with an expression that portrayed both utmost disbelief and resentment.  
"It's a _shirt_, John." He spat, bitterly. "An item of clothing. It doesn't _mean_ anything. You repulse me. In fact, the entirety of the human race repulses me. There will come a day when the whole world reaches the apocolypse and all you humans will care about are the shallow and materialistic things you deem so important, more important than the things that actually matter."  
"You said that caring was a dangerous disadvantage," I reminded him. "That there was no point at all in caring about other people..." I looked at him with curiosity. "What's changed?"  
He sighed. "Everything."  
I stared at him in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes had changed; Sherlock Holmes had altered his opinions... Sherlock Holmes _cared_.  
"You're saying that you care?"  
"I'm saying that there are emotions within me that I was once able to control but now fail to do so," He said, wearily. "There was once a time when everything was so simple and now life itself has become a series of difficult complications, caused only by a simple chemical defect in the brain."  
"It's caring, Sherlock, it doesn't have to be an affliction." I said, quietly.  
"But it _is_ an affliction, John!" He cried. "It's an affliction because all it succeeds in doing is causing hurt. I shouldn't care; I don't want to care. But I do, I just...can't help it."  
He turned his gaze from mine to the obscured window. It seemed as if he was trying to find his way out of a world that trapped and suffocated him until his only hope was to fly. The thought alone terrified me; the last time he had attempted to fly, I had lost him. And I couldn't lose him again...despite everything that had happend, I couldn't lose him again; it would kill me.  
"Sherlock, I know things have been difficult lately. I know that we've been arguing and distancing ourselves a lot...but I care. I care about you and I don't want to leave, not really. I don't want to leave Baker Street behind. I don't want to lead the life I was always destined to leave before I met you; I don't want an ordinary job with a consistent salary and to marry a woman only to regret it later and to live the pretence that I am happy for the rest of my life. I want Mrs Hudson complaining every morning that neither of us have bothered to wash the dishes. I want you playing the violin in the early hours of the morning simply because you felt composing would allow you to think clearer. I want to solve this case and defeat Moriarty once and for all and, most importantly, I want to be your friend. Always."  
Sherlock watched me silently for a moment. By the time I had finished speaking, I was almost breathless. I stared at him incredulously.  
"That's it?" I exclaimed. "You're not going to say anything? You're just going to sit there and say nothing?"  
He shook his head and then a look of pain flooded across his face. "I...don't want you to leave either. I don't want to argue anymore."  
All the tension and anger and bitterness and regret from the last few months, everything that had constructed the rivers and seas of my heart for so long, all just seemed to fade, as if being washed away by waves.  
"I'm going to be better," He mumbled. I noticed that his eyes were glassy, filled with unfallen tears. "I-I've been so lonely."  
"Me too." I choked out.  
We didn't embrace; we didn't need to. In that moment, words were enough. Sherlock and I looked at each other and understood. He mustered a watery smile and I offered him the same and I knew that he had been right about life being a series of difficult complications; there were always going to be complications that we would constantly have to try and solve but that was not something that should be agonised over with wasted thoughts but accepted. I knew that, despite it all, we would find our way out of the labyrinth in the end.


	27. Chapter 27

Note: Felt like I hadn't updated in ages, so I tried to write a long-ish chapter. I'm on 11,000 + views! Keep reviewing, it makes my day :)

**Mia**

The air was thick with fog, causing the outside world to look as if it was trapped behind glass; distant and blurred and obscured. I watched the sky lighten from the window as a single leaf trembled and floated and danced with the wind, swept up in a miniature storm whilst catching a fragment of the sun's light, and then slowly drifting downwards to the cold concrete again. To the darkness; forgotten. I was broken from my thoughts by the sounds of clumsy footsteps and dissonant voices that did little to numb my aching head.  
"There's been another one!" Sherlock's unmistakable excitement was so clear even from the distance that separated us; calling to me from beyond the darkness, like sunlight shining through falling rain. And yet, despite how it seemed as if nothing at all had altered, everything had changed. Any possibility had been shattered, requiring only a few cruel words.  
_You are nothing to me. Nothing._  
The broken echo of his words repeated themselves in my head over and over and over again until began to physically pain me. I willed myself to return to sleep, wanting to forget everything for a little while longer, but my mind was wide awake. Reluctantly, I could do nothing but listen to the sound of his voice.  
"_Another_!" He cried again.  
"Oh Sherlock, you shouldn't get so excited," Mrs Hudson said, disapproval evident in her tone. "It's not decent."  
"Who cares about decent when Moriarty has given us another clue, another key to unlocking his mystery?" He exclaimed.  
"Though I'm rather inclined to disagree, he has got somewhat of a point, Mrs Hudson." John. I could almost hear him smiling as he spoke.  
I remained where I lay, hardly daring to move an inch for fear that I would make a sound which would consequent in them knowing I was awake. I could hardly believe it - in the time I had retired to my room and slept (badly), Mrs Hudson had returned to 221B and John and Sherlock had miraculously reconciled their differences. There were no traces of irritance or bitterness when they spoke to each other...just comfort. Despite all that had happened, I could not prevent the warmth that caused my heart to light up and glow. And then his words echoed in my mind again and the light flickered and diminished completely.  
Sherlock despised me.  
I was in love with him.  
How was I supposed to cope with that?  
"Mia."  
A soft voice broke through my thoughts. John hesitated cautiously in the doorway. I had not even heard his footsteps on the stairs. I swallowed hard to try and make the ache in my throat disappear. It didn't work.  
"John, hi." I choked out. My voice sounded strange and rusty and not quite right even to my own ears.  
"Are you okay?" He frowned at me. "Because you don't seem okay."  
I closed my eyes momentarily to compose myself and when I opened them again, I attempted to muster a smile. "I'm okay."  
He looked at me scepticly but decided not to question me further. He took a few steps closer into the room and then paused, gesturing down to the bed. "May I?"  
I nodded and he sat awkwardly on the edge, as if not wanting to intrude any further. I found this slightly ironic, considering it was his bedroom after all.  
"Sherlock and I..." He cleared his throat. "I guess you could say we've sorted things out."  
"I'm glad. I...I'm happy for you."  
He smiled. "Things haven't been quite right between us for so long...and now it's just such a relief to have cleared the air. I want to apologise to you, too."  
I frowned. "Apologise? What on earth for?"  
"I think you know what for." He said, quietly.  
I stared down at the floral-patterned blanket I supposed to be one of Mrs Hudson's decorative touches, rather than John's to avoid his gaze.  
"It's okay, you don't need to apologise."  
"But I do." He said. "I really, really do."  
I opened my mouth to say something, anything at all, but he stopped me.  
"I care about you," He said, softly. "I care about you a great deal. But I understand and accept that you don't feel the same way. I was foolish and childish to let my stubbornness distance us. I just want to be your friend."  
"You are my friend," I told him, quietly. "You're the only friend I've ever had."  
He flushed slightly and then smiled at me. "I just want you to be happy."  
I bit my lip but said nothing. I wasn't happy. I couldn't be happy. But I could never tell John that.  
"I am happy." I lied.  
"Good," He said. "That's all I needed to know."  
We were silent for a moment, our words lost to the sound of the wind and muffled rain outside.  
"I came to tell you that Moriarty has left us another clue." He said, suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. "Another letter."  
"What does it say?" I asked, cautiously, part of me longing to know and the other dreading the words it would contain.  
"Sherlock will show you," He replied. "We have to meet Miss Adler in an hours' time. Will you come with us?"  
"I..."  
He noticed my hesitance and frowned.  
I swallowed. "Of course."  
He smiled at me and walked over to the door. "See you downstairs in ten."  
I nodded and, only when I was sure he was a safe distance away, buried my head in my hands.

**Sherlock**

* * *

**You should never allow distractions, a lesson I thought you'd learnt long ago.**  
**I've left you a little surprise.**  
**Enjoy.**  
**Jim**

* * *

The letter had been typed again, the ink smudged and letters somewhat obscured so that I had to squint slightly to make some of them out. John stood next to me, holding his breath, waiting. Something in the atmosphere changed. I was no longer filled with excitement at the prospect of a new hint, but a deep kind of sickness that caused dread to tug at my heart.  
"Can you make anything out of it?" I asked.  
He shrugged. "Haven't the faintest."  
Mrs Hudson emerged in the doorway, her face stained with an irritable expression.  
"What now, Mrs Hudson?" I demanded, impatiently.  
"I've told you boys time and time again not to leave your things lying about." She was unable to mask the annoyance in her voice. "It just clutters the place. You know, John, that programme on television the other day on how to de-clutter your house? It's about time we -"  
In her hands was a phone. Not just any phone, but the phone that had once belonged to Irene Adler. I remembered almost every detail, the miniscule crack - almost invisible to the human eye - on the screen and its tint of gold.  
"This is not my phone. This belongs to Irene Adler." My voice was dull. Blank. Seemingly conveying no emotion, though my heart had tightened against my chest. "I find it incredulous you would not recognise it, Mrs Hudson."  
She frowned deeply. "It's all the same to me, Sherlock. Technology, that is."  
"That much is evident." I said, dryly, extending my hand for her to give me the phone.  
"How on earth did Moriarty manage to get it?" John wondered aloud, genuinely baffled. "Mycroft forced you to give it back to him and it became official property belonging to the government. How on earth..."  
"How Moriarty obtained such a device is irrelevant " I broke him off from his pointless thoughts - wondering would solve nothing - and examined the phone carefully in my hands, turning it to inspect every inch of its surface. "The point is that he is _able_ obtain such a device, and that is the most dangerous fact of all."  
"But what would he want with it?"  
I did not bother to reply and held the phone up to the light to examine it for traces of fingerprints. None.  
"If Moriarty sent us her phone..." John frowned. "Could that mean Irene Adler is in danger?"  
I stuffed the phone into my coat pocket and offered him a counterfeit smile as I walked over to the door. "Yes, John, it is most likely."  
"Wait - I asked Mia to come with us. She'll be ready any minute."  
Immediately it all flooded back. Her face washed in pale lamplight, eyes bruised with hurt, as I had locked her out of my heart for good...or attempted to. I closed my eyes momentarily, knowing that the memory alone would forever be imprisoned in my mind. I would never be able to forget the way she had looked at me.  
"I'm ready now."  
A shaft of sunlight filtered through the window, casting dappled light across the stairs, and turning every strand of her hair into single strands of gold. She was dressed in John's blue plaid shirt and a pair of daisy-patterned Doc Marten boots, nostalgic memories from Mrs Hudson's hippy days of youth. She could not even look at me; she stood, the dust particles illuminated in the light, and crushed my heart over and over and over again.  
John, oblivious to it all, cleared his throat and gestured towards my hand that had paused on the door knob. "Shall we?"  
I swallowed hard and walked out onto Baker Street.

**John**

The sky was washed with sunlight but the air was cold. Frozen. I directed the cab driver to Belgrave Square and tried not to notice the silence that had fallen between us all and attempted to mask it with meaningless observations.  
"I remembered Miss Adler's house to be two streets back from here." I tried, helplessly.  
Sherlock simply grunted in response. We passed endless rows of white brick houses with immaculate terraces and brightly-coloured flowers. The neighbourhoods were all lined with Autumn trees with burnt amber leaves.  
"Imagine living here..." I mused. "Although I expect it's not quite Downing Street."  
I glanced at Mia, but her eyes were elsewhere. She frowned slightly.  
"I wouldn't know," She said, softly. "We never actually lived there."  
I raised an eyebrow. "But surely you must have spent some time there?"  
"No," She shook her head. Her voice was dark. "We lived in an ordinary house. My father was the one who spent time there...my mother took his absence as an opportunity to have affairs with various different men."  
Sherlock began to choke, supposedly on the breath he had been holding in, and attempted to mask his discomfort with a cough. I glanced at him wearily and then realised that the cab had halted to a stop.  
"I'm, um, sorry to hear that." I mumbled.  
"It's fine." She mustered a smile. "She's not a part of my life anymore. It doesn't matter."  
"Perhaps we should concentrate more on the matter at hand rather than the past." Sherlock said, coldly, and stepped out onto the concrete.  
I muttered a hasty apology to the driver and promised to double his fare for waiting an extra twenty minutes (an expense Sherlock could take care of). Mia and I followed. The house was just as I had remembered it to be. Tall, grand, and hopelessly intimidating...much like Miss Adler herself. We pressed the button on the intercom a many number of times but received no reply. I half expected Sherlock to yell out in frustration but instead, surprisingly calmly, he produced a tension wrench and expertly began to pick the lock.  
"Are you always so blasé when breaking into other people's houses?" I asked him, sarcastically.  
"Always." He retorted and, almost as promptly as he had spoken, the door opened.  
I felt a strong sense of unease settle over my stomach as soon as we walked through the corridor, afraid our footsteps, all too loud as we walked across the marble floor, would give us away.  
"You asked for my protection from possible dangers and yet you make it so ridiculously simple to pick your lock," Sherlock called out, his voice echoing. "Tut tut, Miss Adler."  
No response. I waited for one of her "maids" to emerge, but nobody came. The house itself remained eerily silent and still. I knew then that something wasn't right.  
"Sherlock." I hissed. "Something's wrong."  
"I'm perfectly aware of that fact, John." Sherlock replied, his calmness only frustrating me further.  
He began to ascend the stairs, but I was hesitant and remained on the bottom step.  
"Let's go." I whispered desperately and glanced at Mia. Her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.  
"Very well," Sherlock said. "I'll meet you in the cab in twenty minutes."  
"No!" I cried, momentarily forgetting to keep my voice quiet.  
"Then shut up and stop infecting the air with your cowardice." He snapped.  
I opened my mouth to reply but was silenced when Sherlock hesitated outside the door of Miss Adler's bedroom.  
"Sherlock, I don't think -"  
Silencing my words, he pushed open the door. At first it looked as if the room was empty, but then I caught sight of Miss Adler. Or rather, the back of her head. She was sitting at her dressing table, but from the angle we stood we could not see the reflection of her face in the mirror. Her hair was damp and she was still dressed in her black silk bath robe. Still, she said nothing.  
"Miss Adler?"  
Nothing.  
I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. Sherlock approached her cautiously. I watched his eyes widen as he tilted her head carefully. And then, at last, I saw her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were crusted with dry blood, skin pale and mottled with blue-black bruises. She remained very still...  
She was dead.


	28. Chapter 28

**Mia**

"Is she..." I could barely choke the words out. _Death_ was a word that caused my blood to freeze and my heart to curl up in fear. From such an angle, she appeared to be so alive. As if breath still lingered within her body, as if her cheeks were still painted with colour. And yet it seemed that her heart had stopped, once and for all.  
Sherlock said nothing. He examined every inch of her skin carefully and intently, searching for any signs of life. His face remained an expressionless, blank mask and yet even he could not prevent the pale whiteness that infiltrated his skin.  
"Oh God." John's voice broke the hushed silence that had long since fallen. His sharp, ragged intake of breath caused my own lungs to tremble.  
Still, Sherlock said nothing. His movements were tinted with urgency now, as he fought to find any existing remnants of life. He felt for her pulse, kept his fingers pressed to her wrist, but found nothing. And then he leant his head to her chest...to find her heart. His eyes flickered momentarily, and then closed. The moment was so quiet and so intimate that I had to look away. John, too, was silent. It was then that I realised that Sherlock had been in love with her. The grief painted in his face was too much to bear. To know that I loved him and he loved another pained me...but to know that he had lost the one he had loved...that pained me more. His sadness, his grief, his despair.  
"She's not dead."  
His voice was a shadow. He had spoken and yet his words were empty. Hollow. A moment passed before his words sank below the surface of my skin and into the depths of my bloodstream.  
"Sherlock," John choked out. "How can she...how can she not be?"  
"She's been sedated." Sherlock said, quietly. His eyes remained closed, his head pressed against her chest. Her heart. "The drug has slowed her heart, making it almost impossible to detect its beat from the pulse. But she is alive. The drug itself is not strong enough to stop it from beating entirely, only to weaken it."  
John shook his head. "I don't believe it."  
Sherlock did not reply. And still, he did not rise. His head remained against her chest, as if the lull of her faint heartbeat comforted him.  
"We should get help, Sherlock." John said. "She needs medical attention."  
Finally, as if being awoken from a long slumber, Sherlock stirred. He stood up from where he had knelt, straightened his back and brushed himself down. He walked over to the door. John, beside me, stared at him incredulously.  
"Sherlock," He cried. "You can't leave her. She needs a doctor!"  
Sherlock turned to face him. He was perfectly calm, completely contrasting with the despair he had worn when kneeling by Miss Adler's side. "Don't be moronic, John, you are a doctor. You can attempt to help her regain conciousness once we return to Baker Street. It'll be rush hour soon, and the traffic is particularly unforgiving today."  
John stared at him, echoing my own disbelief. "You were close to tears a moment ago. You were..."  
"I was what, John?" Sherlock demanded, his voice worn with irritance. "I was just intent on determining whether or not Miss Adler was alive. You have known me for a long time now, I find it quite odd that you are not yet well-aquainted to the fact that I am not like you and most other human beings."  
John shook his head. "You cared. Don't pretend, Sherlock - what's the point?"  
His face darkened. "I don't need to pretend. I don't possess the emotions to care about hiding things. Now you can assist me in helping to take Miss Adler back to Baker Street, or you can remain here and become a possible suspect for an attempted murder case. It's your decision."  
He left the room, his footsteps echoing loudly as he descended the marble staircase. Soon enough, the front door closed behind him. John sighed and gathered the seemingly lifeless body into his arms. He glanced at me, as if only just remembering I was there.  
"Don't let him fool you," He said, quietly. "He does care. Deep down, he does."  
I shook my head, suddenly tired of the heavily emphasised fact that Sherlock did not possess a heart and could therefore never fully reciprocate any kind of emotion I felt for him.  
"And what if he doesn't, John?" I asked, angrily. "What if you're just telling yourself that because you don't want to accept the truth?"  
He frowned and said nothing for an endlessly long moment that seemed to linger into an eternity. All the while, my heart was gradually beginning to cave in on itself. I didn't know how much more of it all I could take.  
"I don't know," He said finally, and his voice was tinted with sadness. "But I have to believe. If I don't believe, I have nothing."


	29. Chapter 29

**Sherlock**

I dictated that The Woman - or "Miss Adler", the title everyone else seemed so determined to call her - was to be left in my bedroom. I hardly required sleep, and so I therefore deemed it my duty to give up my bed. She was seriously ill. And yet the thought of it made my stomach turn over a little. The last time I had found Miss Adler in my bed had been under different circumstances. I had known her then. Or rather, I had known her to be the person I wanted her to be. But I knew differently now. Her past deception had altered me. My heart had never truly been open but her lies had ensured that it would firmly remain locked forever.  
She lay, seemingly sleeping; her dark hair framing her ivory skin catching the light like water. Her lips, always painted crimson, were pale - coloured only by the mottled bruise that stained them. Even in slumber, she was beautiful. I longed to prevent the ache that formed within my heart whenever I looked at her but, despite all that had happened, it had never quite faded completely.  
At roughly ten o'clock, John quietly appeared. He remained behind the closed door, his head peering behind its wood, as if he was attempting to cautiously maintain a safe distance.  
"It's late." He whispered. "Mia and I are turning in for the night."  
"Not together, I hope." I remarked, somewhat bitterly, and I could not explain the resentment that crept into my words.  
John shook his head wearily. "No, Sherlock, not together."  
I said nothing and turned my gaze to The Woman, who had still not moved a single inch since we had placed her carefully beneath the sheets.  
"How's she holding up?" He queried.  
The mark from the injection he had given her earlier was still prominent; a small purple stain under the pale of her arm.  
"She hasn't stirred." I stated, flatly. "I'm beginning to question whether she'll ever wake up again at all."  
John frowned. "Of course she will, Sherlock." And then he looked at me, his eyes searching mine. It was the look he always gave me when he was attempting to understand or comfort me. "Sherlock...you know this isn't like last time, right? This is real. She...this isn't pretence. I know that last time when you thought she was -"  
"Yes, well, hadn't you better be getting some sleep of your own?" I interrupted him, briskly.  
He opened his mouth, as if to argue, but then promptly decided against it. He mustered a small smile but it soon faltered. "Well, if there's anything you need..."  
"I doubt I will require anything from you, John. After all, I am not the one currently bed-ridden after suffering a lethal overdose of sedatives."  
"Very well," He said, closing the door with a sigh. "Good night."  
I listened to the sound of his footsteps across the stairs and then the sound of Mia's voice, though her words were blurred and distorted due to the distance that seperated us. I swallowed. The memory from the previous night was still imprinted in my mind so that even when I closed my eyes, I could still see the hurt in her face. She was like fog. A haze that would soon disappear completely. It was my fault. I kept pushing her away...and yet what else could I do? What other option had I ever possibly had?  
"You haven't been sleeping well, Holmes."  
The voice was like light breaking through a thunderstorm. But it was also like an angry sunset staining the sky with colour and fear. I turned, my heart in my mouth, to find Miss Adler sitting upright. Her lips were chapped and cracked, her voice husky from lack of water, but looking at her it was almost hard to believe she had ever been unconcious for so long. Her smile seemed so easy, so unfaltering, despite the slight wince of pain that she succeeded in masking with a raised eyebrow.  
"Dare I ask how you may have deduced that?" I asked, attempting to hide my surprise by feigning nonchalance.  
"Your posture." She said, matter of factly. "If you don't mind me saying, Holmes, you are slumped quite like a homeless person. Unbecoming, really, of a man of your...intelligence."  
"You're awake." I stated, bluntly.  
"Yes, it would appear so." Her tone was so blase, as if regaining conciousness after facing such a dramatic ordeal was really no more than a regular occurance. "It would also appear that you saved my life."  
"You have John to thank for that." I muttered. "I had no participation in the matter."  
"Dr. Watson, then." She substituted. "Either way, you found me when no one else would have."  
"Oh, I'm perfectly sure someone would have come to your rescue at some point." I said. "Any number of your maids, perhaps. Though due to the estimated amount of time John deducted you'd been left for, I'd say it might be time to reconsider the people you so closely surround yourself with and trust so dearly."  
"Perhaps." She mused. "Or perhaps I could just hire you to look after me, Mr Holmes."  
I shook my head. "No amount of money in the world would interest me in that matter."  
"Such a shame," The Woman said, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Such a terrible shame. I don't suppose Dr. Watson would be interested? Or perhaps even your latest accomplice...your young object of affection."  
I glared at her. "Not that I deem it to be even remotely any of your business, but the girl is not even a friend of mine, let alone an 'object of affection'."  
Her lips curled into a smile. "Well, if I said I wasn't glad about that I'd be lying."  
I said nothing to this and instead turned my gaze to the window. The curtains had been drawn so that the room was enveloped by darkness, but a tiny fraction of the glass panes were still visible, allowing slithers of lamplight to illuminate the room. I was lying, I almost longed to say, but I would not expect you to understand.  
"Hold me. Hold me. I need you to hold me."  
I hadn't even realised she had risen from the bed, when the coolness of her lips pressed against my cheek. I stared at her, unable to fathom words of any kindShe stood so close and yet, unbeknownst to her, she was so far away; so far away from knowing what truly lay within my frozen heart. She could never begin to understand how I cared for Mia so much that I had to keep her at a distance, had to keep her safe. The Woman - her name alone portrayed the kind of person she was. A name. And nothing more. She did not possess feelings. She was a symbol. And I too had once been the same. Sherlock Holmes. I had never possessed a heart. I had always deemed feelings to be dangerous disadvantages. And yet now I found myself falling...  
In that moment, I was so lonely. I wanted nothing more than to bask in the arms of another just to forget about the ice that distanced my heart from all those who attempted to come anywhere close to it. Without thinking, I instinctively reached out my arms and she leant her head against my shoulder. We were silent for a moment, lost to our own thoughts. I was aware of nothing but the rise and fall of our chests; our hushed breathing. And then she spoke again.  
"I want to thank you, Holmes." She whispered, her hot breath in my ear. "Let me thank you..."

**Mia**

Through the crack in the door, I watched them.  
She was a crimson blur and he held her tightly to his chest. In the pale light of the moon that filtered through the window, though her face was shadowed slightly, I could see that she was beautiful. Her head lingered on his shoulder for a moment too long, before they broke apart. I waited for him to let her go, but he didn't. His arms remained, his hands grazing her shoulder blades. She shivered. Waited. And stared into his eyes as the first star in the sky was reduced to a tremor. I stood. Waited. Frozen. His eyes on hers. His arms around her. Her hands touching his face. There was something in my heart that told myself - no, begged me - to turn and walk away...but I couldn't. He closed the distance that seperated them. He exhaled a single breath. Her fingers tangled in his hair. And then she kissed him.  
_No._ My thoughts began to scream as my chest grew tighter. _Oh God. No._  
It was then that I knew it was all too late. My thoughts and feelings meant nothing. Nothing at all. I could do nothing but watch as her fingertips traced the planes of his face I once had touched myself. Her chin cupped in his hands, the hands that I had once thought belonged in my own. I forced myself to turn away. We had both once been lost but he had found his way again. And I was now lost alone. I wondered if she was the reason he had been smiling recently. Probably. I felt a familiar sickness in my heart. The misery of disappointment and betrayal that was unjustified as he had never really belonged to me in the first place...  
I'm not sure what it was that made him look up suddenly. Perhaps my sudden movement caught his eye. He turned sharply in my direction with a frown. And then he saw me.  
I was huddling close into my hoodie, the thin coat Mrs Hudson had given to me long ago over the top that did little to offer any sort of warmth. My hair was damp from the rain, tangled in rats tails over my shoulders. My cheeks were still damp from crying. I must have looked a wreck. As I shivered, my breath turned to smoke. I stood there for a long time, watching him watch me. His face did not resemble regret or even happiness, just speechlessness, though through the darkness I could see there were words in his eyes. The woman in the crimson dress turned to him, noticing his sudden distraction.  
"What is it, Sherlock?" She asked.  
Somehow the sound his name in her voice caused me to break away from his gaze and return to reality. I turned away from them both, confirming the distance that seperated us. Just as I began to walk away, I heard his voice.  
"Nothing." He whispered, his words echoing through me like wind. "It's no one."


	30. Chapter 30

**Mia**

I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't think or dream or even breathe.

Hours had passed, the sky had begun to lighten, and yet even the faintest possibility of slumber evaded me. My skin was worn with fatigue so heavy that it weighed down on my heart like the sombre darkness that consumed every corner of my mind. His eyes were burnt permanently into my mind, ponds of green and silver and blue; constant reminders that haunted me like regretful memories.

_She kissed him._

_She kissed him. She kissed him. She kissed him. She kissed him. She kissed him. She kissed him. She kissed him._

And he had kissed her.

That knowledge, in itself, was enough to make me want to shrivel up like the petals of a wilting flower and fall into the earth; disappear into a mound of soil where I would never have to see the sunlight again.

In my mind, the sequence of images played continuously; her pale Winter skin, his eyes caught in a shaft of moonlight, his hands tangled in her hair and her hands tangled around his neck, her blood red lips touching his. They replayed over and over and over again in my head until they became blurred and distorted, and I attempted to convince myself that they were merely figments of my imagination. But I couldn't quite pretend.

In my mind, I was braver. Stronger. I stood in the doorway without hesitance, but nonchalance. I smirked at Miss Adler. I looked through Sherlock as if he were made entirely of glass; as if he meant nothing.

"_Nothing. It's no one_."

His words grazed my skin until they found themselves in the channels of my veins. They were carried like waves until they reached my heart; my very own sea of despair.

It was then I knew that it was too late. It was all too late. I was in love with a person who was not in love with me. It was an anchor, a hopeless burden, that dragged me down to the seabed and threatened to drown me. I was slowly dying, I was sure of it. The helplessness washed over my skin like rain. I had lost my mother, my father, my sister. I had lost my life. I had lost my sanity to a man who had every intention of finding me and then killing me. And, now, I had lost my heart.

I didn't know how much more weight I could bear until I finally fell apart completely. There was not enough of me left to lose much more.

His words, though cruel, were right.

I was nothing.


	31. Chapter 31

**Sherlock**

My whole body was frozen, but her lips were warm. When she kissed me, it was as if she was attempting to part my lips and uncover my secrets. It sickened me, unsettled me, how I was so able to succumb to her. Miss Adler was an intoxicant. She could cause you to feel things you did not wish to feel…even me. That was what pained me the most – to know that, when it came down to it, I was no better than other pathetic mere mortals. So able to succumb and adorn. She was a spiderweb. And I was a fly, falling helplessly into her trap. And yet, when I thought about it, was it so different with Mia? I was a moth drawn to a flame. Her flame. But, really, it was different. It was completely different to the so-called "attraction" I held with Miss Adler; because at the end of it all, being with The Woman culminated in darkness. Mia was a light, the only light I had ever known.

Miss Adler brought her lips from mine. I had not responded in a long while, lost to the disorientation of my own thoughts.

"Something distracting you, Mr Holmes?" Her lips curled into a smile. "Something _else_?"

Words had escaped my tongue long ago. I shook my head. I was weary all of a sudden, as if every inch of energy had slowly been drained from my body.

"Something has changed in you." She said, quietly. "You're different. Distanced. There's a sadness within your eyes, though you try very hard not to let people see it."

"Do not attempt to pretend you are well mastered in matters such as reading people, Miss Adler." I said, dryly. "I once fooled you into thinking I was in love with you, do not think for one second I am incapable of fooling you again."

"I don't have to be well mastered in the subject to know that you've lost yourself." She replied, her tone calm despite my bitterness. "You allowed me to kiss you…to touch you…you're lonely. You're lonely and you have no idea how to cope with it."

"Lonely?" I stared at her, incredulously. "I have spent my life attempting to distance myself from other people. I haven't been entirely successful, of course, but I have been successful in determining the fact that I do not need the company of another person for no reason other than an illusion of safety and comfort."

"If that is so," Miss Adler said, an infuriating smirk playing across her lips. "Why do you insist on keeping your good old friend Doctor Watson by your side, allowing him to assist you in cases?"

"John is the only person who doesn't entirely infuriate me, and even he has the ability to wear my patience." I snapped.

"And the girl?"

I was silent for a moment, quite unable to fathom words of any kind. My silence caused her smile to illuminate every inch of her face. She was satisfied.

"She means nothing." I said, quietly. "She is nothing to me."

Miss Adler arose from where she had been sitting and, without so much as an explanation, undid her robe. The naked arch of her back was illuminated in the moonlight, her skin pale and white like salt crusting a broken wave.

"Very well, Mr Holmes," She turned, momentarily, to face me once again. "I understand your motives. In fact, I understand the notion of pretence entirely. In the end, after all, aren't we all pretending in order to convince ourselves? To believe in a perfect lie in order to escape the flaws within reality."


	32. Chapter 32

**John**

Miss Adler sat at the table wearing a silk dressing gown and a vacant expression. The early morning sunlight illuminated half of her face, leaving the other shadowed. This, to me, seemed like an accurate portrayal of her personality. There always seemed to be a part of her that was obscured; her true soul, perhaps. A cigarette lay between her fingertips, though it appeared that she had not flicked the ash in quite a while due to its length.

"Feeling better?" I asked, unable to mask the bitterness within my voice.

She glanced at me, as if only just noticing my presence, but her expression remained distant. "You could say that."

I poured myself a cup of black coffee from the pot she had boiled and did not turn to face her for a while, watching the steam rise into the air. "You seem to have recovered well. You know, after being heavily sedated and nearly dying and all. But then, I suppose that's just an everyday experience for you…in your line of work."

"You're quite right, Dr Watson. In my line of work, those are two experiences to be enjoyed, not feared."

I added a dash of milk to my coffee, watching its light dilute the blackness. "And Sherlock is aware that you've recovered, I presume?"

"Yes," Her words were almost tangible; I could almost hear her smile as it crept among them. "Mr Holmes is most definitely aware."

I turned. As I had suspected, her lips were curled into a knowing smile as if she knew a secret that I could and would never know. I opened my mouth to question her but was interrupted by Sherlock's sudden appearance in the doorway.

"Ah, John, if you're making tea I'll have a cup." His tone was nonchalant as he sat down to join Miss Adler at the breakfast table.

"Coffee, actually."

"Black, four sugars."

"Four?" I stared at him, incredulously.

"Yes, four, I'm trying to cut down." He retorted, much to Miss Adler's amusement.

I sighed heavily and turned to continue my hot beverage making duties. The kettle had just boiled again when Mia walked in. Her cheeks flushed pink as if they had been painted with watercolours. Unlike Miss Adler, she was fully dressed in another one of the shirts I had leant her. It was dark green with buttoned pockets, one of my favourites.

"You're in luck, kettle's just boiled." I informed her.

She smiled at me, faintly, though it faltered completely when her gaze found Sherlock and Miss Adler sitting at the table. Sherlock watched her carefully, almost intently, but said nothing. Miss Adler, in contrast, smirked at her attire.

"All dressed up?" She inquired, her expression a painting of innocence.

Mia simply glanced at her, coldly, and said nothing. Miss Adler was encouraged by her silence and, as if savouring it, leant back further into her chair and smiled.

"What's the occasion?"

She announced it so nonchalantly and yet it took only these words to firmly silence us all:

"I'm going to find Moriarty."

**Mia**

The atmosphere had been altered entirely, almost as if snow had suddenly fallen and the world found itself blanketed by something it had not prepared for. The world was muffled all of a sudden, as if we had suddenly been submerged by water. Sherlock never did take his eyes from mine. There was a flicker of something within them but I was not foolish enough to presume it to be concern, though my heart trembled slightly. Miss Adler, The Woman, was not so able to mask her contempt. Her eyes, grey like cold concrete, narrowed. Her lips, typically the colour of poppies, appeared to have lost their saturation. In fact, her skin had paled completely. She, however, was not the first to voice her thoughts.

"You can't be serious." John spluttered, almost choking on his coffee.

"I have no choice."

"How valiant." Miss Adler remarked, dryly.

"Of course you have a choice," John continued, ignoring her comment. "You have a choice to stay here until we figure out how to find Moriarty and beat him at his own game."

"I have been staying here," I tried to maintain a vague sense of composure, but my words seemed to tremble as they escaped my mouth. "I've stayed here for days now. Weeks. Nothing has changed. We haven't found him and we are no closer to finding him. He's getting closer and closer…and he's hurting people."

"I wouldn't flatter him, darling, I'm hardly hurt." Miss Adler smirked.

"I wasn't just referring to you." I said, quietly. "He approached John the other day. He warned him that there are lives at risk."

"He always was overly dramatic." She replied, her tone so nonchalant that it caused my blood to burn.

"Whether it is a case of being '_dramatic_' or not," I snapped. "I'm not willing to sit here and do nothing."

"So what do you propose?" She questioned. Her skin was no longer pale in its pallor, a little of the colour had returned, and her eyes had once again retained their mischievous glint. "You're going to go after him, a _child_, and you think that in doing so you will succeed in finding James Moriarty and stopping him." Her laughter escaped from her lips like rain, drenching my skin in an instant and consequently extinguishing the flame within me that, just seconds ago, had burnt so brightly. "You're just a child. You're nothing."

Something within her eyes flickered; a shadow of a smile hid beneath the glass of her irises. _She knew_. She remembered Sherlock's words and now she was repeating them, just to watch every little inch of determination I had mustered within me crumple and falter and fall apart completely. She had broken me, and only requiring borrowed words.

"She's not a child."

A voice – _the_ voice – filtered through the fog; sunlight shining through rain.

"And it is not for you to presume such a thing; you do not even know her."

I glanced, surprised, towards Sherlock. His gaze still refused to meet mine, remaining elsewhere completely, but the fact he had spoken at all was enough. I allowed myself those few allotments of seconds to stare at him intently. His hair was unkempt, as if he had been running his hands through his hair; the curls hopelessly dishevelled. His eyes were weary, though their colour never failed to make my heart beat a little faster.

Miss Adler's smile faltered somewhat, though she masked it considerably well. "It's true, Amelia and I are not so well acquainted, but that has no consequence on my ability to make a judgement. Jim Moriarty is a criminal mastermind. Underestimating him is dangerous; underestimating him so much to think a _teenage girl_ could break him is moronic."

"Though I hate to admit this, I agree with Miss Adler." John said, darkly. "Mia, you're far too young."

"What does age _matter_?" I was exasperated. Drained. Tired of being told I was so incapable of everything. "He's going to find me if I don't find him. What choice do I have? What other choice have I ever possibly had but to find him?"

I turned to Sherlock. "I have to. If he can't find me…he'll find my family."

"The family you so amorously abandoned all those years ago." He commented, sarcastically.

"They're still my family. I wouldn't expect you to understand, with your incapability of being able to feel anything at all." I replied, coldly. His expression did not alter, though a light within his eyes seemed to tremor slightly. I sighed. "Will you help me?"

"Of course not." Miss Adler snorted, suddenly.

"Yes."

I stared at him in surprise. Even John turned to him with an incredulous expression. But Miss Adler's expression was the one that should have been captured by a painting. Utmost outrage. Pure disbelief.

Sherlock, in contrast, remained nonchalant. But his eyes seemed to betray a tint of amusement and his mouth curled into one of those rare half-smiles that had the ability to make my heart light up. Even without him I would have continued, though every inch of me would have been weighed down by disappointment and regret. But he was there, and I was not alone.s

"Thank you." I whispered. "That's all I needed to know."


	33. Chapter 33

**Note: **So, finally, I've updated. I was encouraged by all the lovely reviews! Just a warning, this chapter contains quite a graphic scene. If you don't like blood or the thought of blood or whatever you probably shouldn't read...so yeah. Enjoy the graphic violence.

**Sherlock**

Hours had passed, though time itself had become blurred so that it felt as if no time had really passed at all. Miss Adler had long ago excused herself, claiming she had some "important business to attend to". I did not even bother to argue, her mere presence had begun to exhaust me, but John was somewhat reluctant to let her go.  
"You can't just leave," He had said, adamantly. "Yesterday you were close to being in a coma. You're in danger. For all we know, Moriarty could be out there just waiting for you..."  
"Your concern is endearing, Dr. Watson, but I'm perfectly sure I will be capable stepping out into the real world for a short duration of time," She'd paused, and looked over towards me with a meaningful expression. "Baker Street is beginning to feel more of a prison than a place of safety."  
I supposed her words were an attempt to hurt or anger me, encourage any kind of reaction within me, but really I was tired. Drained. Her words had dampened my skin like rain but were unable to sink into my bloodstream. I was too lost in my thoughts to acknowledge her, let alone care. I remained at the window, my back to both her and John until, finally, the door closed quietly behind her. Soon after, John too had mumbled his excuses and left. He knew I was in no mood to talk and for that I was grateful. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts to try and attempt to salvage any kind of sense within this labyrinth of confusion.  
Mia was determined to find Moriarty. She had reasons - reasons that I of course could not comprehend let alone sympathise with but reasons nonetheless - and it seemed that those reasons were powerful enough to overshadow any rational thought that may have existed within that cryptic mind of hers. Something about it all struck me as being ridiculous; she, a seventeen year old girl, determined to find a criminal mastermind and confront him...and then what? Foil him? I shook my head, despite the fact my voice existed only in my mind. It was madness. And yet, I could not help but admire her. She was so young, so inexperienced of the world and the dangers it contained, and yet she was so willing to do what most ordinary people were not willing to do.  
From the very beginning, I had estimated the girl to be little more than a fantastically irritating disadvantage. Her past infuriated me. I had never had any particular warmth towards people in high positions of power deeming themselves as something special when, really, they were just as idiotic as every other mortal in the world. My own brother was a member of the British government and he infuriated me, so it really wasn't as if I was about to tolerate a girl, little more than a child, who had been involved in such a world with birth as her only right.  
But she wasn't...like them. She wasn't just another human, another blank face in a sea of identities, in a world in which every person was insignificant. Etched into her face were shadows of bad memories; mysteries in which, despite myself, I longed to spend my life solving. Her eyes were filled with sadness, constant sadness that never altered. When she looked at me, it was as if her eyes were reaching into my own to find the darkness that existed within me. When she looked at me, her sadness found my sadness.  
It was that sadness that caused something within myself to tremble. I could not decline her request to help her. I did not have the strength, the stamina, the determination.  
"Sherlock."  
I turned to find her, the very cause of my labyrinth of thoughts, standing in the doorway. For once, she did not attempt to muster a smile. She had given up. My words of cruelty had finally worn her down. She no longer had the patience and energy to attempt to thaw the ice of my coldness with her kindness.  
"How long have you been standing there for?" I inquired.  
"Long enough." She answered, flatly.  
"And have you..." I frowned, trying to determine my own words. "...given any more thought into where you would like to begin?"  
She sighed. "I don't have a clue."  
I gestured towards the faded brown leather armchair by the fireplace. "Sit down."  
"No." She shook her head.  
"Sit." I ordered, through gritted teeth.  
She watched me carefully for a moment, her eyes searching mine, but then finally did as I had asked her to. A heavy silence descended. She stared at the smouldered ash in the fireplace almost sadly, as if she longed to see the flicker of flames. I began to pace backwards and forwards, hoping the movement would encourage my tangle of thought processes. Why had Moriarty sent us the envelopes...why had he wanted us to try and discover whatever it was he was planning? Why would he put a plan of obviously high importance at such risk when he knew that, at any moment, one of us might find something?  
"Don't you want to..." She gestured vaguely to the armchair opposite.  
"No." I exclaimed, infuriated that I had been interrupted. I closed my eyes, firmly, but my mind was once again an empty canvas. An anguished groan escaped my lips. "For God's sake, why is nothing working? Think. I need to think."  
She stared at me in confusion as I continued to pace backwards and forewards, which only caused me to sigh. "It's a mind technique," I told her, impatiently. "Pacing helps me think."  
Games. Moriarty liked to play games. He tired easily of winning and so being at risk, however small or unlikely, entertained him so that -  
"What are you trying to think about?" She wondered aloud, interrupting me once again.  
"Why on earth you continue to insist on talking when I am trying to -" My eyes widened suddenly, as my words simply evaporated into the air. "Oh."  
Everything Moriarty had sent was interlinked in some way; the notion of fairytales, the code, the threat...it had all meant something...but what?  
"Mia," I knelt before her and cupped her face in my hands so that her eyes could not leave mine. "This is very important. The code Moriarty sent, DOC45M706, it means something."  
"Well of course it means something," Her words were impatient but her voice was little more than a whisper. "Why else would he have given it to us?"  
"You need to think." I said. "You know what that code means...you've seen it before. He would never have given it to us if you had not have seen it before. He knows who you are. He knows that you know what it means...all you need to do is remember. Remember now."  
"I can't!" She exclaimed, her eyes wide. "I can't remember! I don't know what it means, I don't know what any of it means...I can't!"  
"You can," I said, firmly. "And you will. You just need to think."  
"I'm not...I'm not like you." Her eyes seemed to quiver with fear. "I can't remember...if I remember, I'll remember everything I've spent years trying to forget. I've kept so many secrets...I don't want to remember."  
"Mia," I said, quietly. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise. I won't let it."  
"Sherlock..." She stared at me, helplessly, but then closed her eyes and began to remember. Soon enough, shadows begun to dance beneath her skin.

**Mia**

_"I'd rather go blind, boy, then see you walk away from me..."_  
_It is silent, except for the crackling of the vinyl record my mother plays. The entirety of the record has already been played fully about three times already, but this is the song that always clutches my heart The lyrics spill into the air, filling the empty atmosphere with yearning and grief. Etta James. Her favourite._  
_Beth fell asleep long ago. She was waiting for Dad to tuck her in...always so busy, and yet he always had a few minutes to spare to read her a bedtime story. I never got one, when I was younger. He was always too distant to read to me and so there was never anyone there to chase away the darkness...the bad dreams...but I am not bitter. I like listening to his voice, his tales of faraway worlds so distant to the cold light of reality, and the sound of Beth's soft breathing as she drifts away into her own world of slumber. His words are like a whispered lullaby; beautiful and comforting but filled with sadness._  
_But tonight he didn't come. She waited and he never came. I watch her now and, despite her state of oblivion, her face is etched with distress. She wept softly. She did not want me to hear...but I heard every ragged breath._  
_It is late. I should be asleep myself. And yet slumber evades me. Like trying to catch a butterfly, there are many moments when I come painfully close but then lose it again. Finally, I give up and tiptoe out of bed. The floor is so cold I feel as if it will turn me to stone, but I do not turn back and get into bed. The warmth of the sheets already feels a million miles away. The window is open slightly, a draft of cold air filtering through, and I stop for a moment to look at the sky. Blue. Deep blue. _  
_The vinyl has not stopped, though the song has long since ended. The crackling has become faint. Distorted. But beneath it, there is silence._  
_I walk cautiously, stumbling through the mask of darkness, until I see the shaft of light from my parents' bedroom. The crackling of the record is louder now that I am closer, and yet somehow the silence seems to conceal it. My heart knocks against my ribcage in an unsteady rhythm. I forget the ice on my skin and the music and all that surrounds me, and open the door._  
_The room is bathed in dim light from the yellow lamp. Outside, the faint sound of rain patters against the window. The wind does not howl, but whistles softly. Its sound chills my skin. A ghost._  
_My father is a shadowed figure. His head is clutched in his hands, his knees drawn up to his chest. His chest heaves with violent sobs. It sounds as if his ribs are snapping and breaking. He hears my footsteps, but he does not look up. In the yellow light of the room, every other colour is bathed in an artificial golden light...and yet the blood on his hands is scarlet. _  
_Their bathroom door is closed, but a small square of light is reflected onto the faded carpet. He does not even try to stop me as I push it open. Immediately, the room is illuminated by bright white light. My father flinches away from it, crawling on his hands and knees in a desperate attempt to find a darkened corner. When I finally muster the courage to step inside, I see her. I am cold, frozen, as I can do nothing but stare. Every inch of me that was once made of blood and bone begins to turn to stone._  
_She lies so peacefully, as if in slumber. The harsh white light above causes her naked skin to appear mottled and blue. Pale. So fragile, like a baby bird that fell from flight. The water is crimson and translucent, sickening as light reflects across its surface. I want to kiss the marks on her wrist, breathe air into her hollow lungs, and listen to the lullaby of her heartbeat but all I can do is stare. _  
_My father stands in the doorway and watches me. His silence washes over me like the rain that continues to fall outside. He does not glance at her. He never takes his eyes from mine._  
_"She did this." He says, in a voice that is slowly dying. _  
_I say nothing. _  
_"She did this." He says again, and takes a step closer to me. He takes my hand in his and I feel his skin beneath mine, coarse and rough. "She did this to you and me and Beth...she did this."_  
_He traces my palm with his fingertips and I realise that he has never touched my hand like this before. He has never remained so close to me for such a long period of time. _  
_"Don't..." He whispers._  
_My skin quivers beneath his touch as he wipes away a tear from the corner of my eye. He is surprisingly warm, contrasting with the frost that has slowly begun to numb every inch of my skin._  
_"Don't do that." _  
_I cannot help the strangled sob that escapes my lungs._  
_"Stop it!" He screams and begins to shake me. "Stop it NOW! You don't cry!"_  
_I am broken as I sink to the floor, the roof of my mouth aching from the trapped sobs that cannot escape. All I can do is stare at the scarlet that stains his hands; bleeding into his veins. I can't look into his eyes. I stumble backwards until I find the hard surface of the wall and then I collapse. My head lies between the crevice between my knees so that all I can see is darkness and that is how I remain. For minutes. Hours. I can no longer tell. Time is irrelevant. All matter is lost. _  
_When I finally dare to emerge again, he is gone but her body remains. Lifeless. Just floating there, like a water lily on the surface of a pond. I do not look at her again as I pass. The light is disorientating. Blinding, almost. I walk through the house that no longer feels like it belongs to me. It is an empty building; a mound of bricks. My thoughts are tangled but all I can distinguish is the desperation to go somewhere. Anywhere. I have to get out. I have to escape. I pack my things and feel nothing, nothing at all. _  
_And then comes the worst part. The letter. Beth. Everything I have to say but cannot face to face._  
_She is still sleeping when I let myself quietly into her bedroom. She is illuminated by a small shaft of moonlight that streams through the open window. In just a few hours, the sky will be diluted with sunlight and the darkness will have disappeared. And yet, we will not emerge from this. We will never wake up from this nightmare. In the morning Lucy, our maid, will come. She will come and she will take her away from it all...I have to believe that. _  
_I kiss her forehead, such an acute portrayal of what our goodbye should be, and leave before I can fall apart all over again. It is either very late or very earl. The sky is above is blue. Deep blue. Starless. The cold air bites my skin but I am numb as I begin to walk..._


	34. Chapter 34

**Note: **I updated twice today, I couldn't help it I was too excited to write this chapter. So, without giving too much away, this is probably what you've all been anticipating. Thank you for bearing with this for so long!

**Sherlock**

And so she told me, inbetween empty ponds of breath. Four sentences. No, five. And by the end of it all, her face was pale in the bleak sunlight that filtered through the window. Her eyes had remained elsewhere but, finally, they found mine and knocked the breath out of my lungs as she uttered her last words with a look of utter despair.  
"She killed herself." She whispered.  
In that moment, I see her as a child. I think of her, frightened and alone, collapsed on a dirty tiled floor. A child should never have had to see something so horrific and my heart burns, just thinking about it all. I swallowed, but my throat remained dry. Dry enough to choke on my own tongue.  
"Forgive me," I said. "I am sorry. I should never have forced you to tell me that."  
"No, no...I needed to remember." She shook her head in response, but her eyes were glazed over by the ghosts of memories that flickered behind their surface. "I just don't understand how I could have forgotten it all...I was always aware of this darkness in the back of my mind, but I was always too frightened to think about it further..."  
"When a person witnesses a traumatic event in their lives at a young age it can cause them to lock that memory away in a box in their mind. There it becomes worn and dusty with cobwebs, forgotten. But it remains all the same." I paused. "When you ran away, you were still in shock. All you wanted to do was forget...and so your mind masked the truth with a lie because that was the only way you would be able to cope. It was always there in the back of your mind. These memories can be forgotten temporarily or ignored...but they always come back to haunt you. Eventually."  
Mia nodded slowly, as if allowing my words to sink into her skin, and stared down at the floor. "So what now?"  
"Somehow, Moriarty knows everything about you...but he also knows something that you do not. And somehow this all revolves around some sort of secret document. My primary guess would be that he intends to use it for blackmail of some sort...but why? What does he want?"  
"What doesn't he want?" Mia remarked, her voice worn with bitterness. "Doesn't he realise I don't have anything left? I don't have a family. I don't have any friends. I don't have a life. What could he possibly want from me?"  
It was never clear what Moriarty wanted. He was deranged. Unlike most criminals - if you could even classify Jim Moriarty as a simple "criminal" - he had no interest in money. It was questionable at times whether he even desired power. All he wanted was to distract himself from the dullness of everyday life and, in doing so, endangered lives of innocent people just for fun. There was something about Mia that quite obviously fascinated him. Perhaps it was her journey from the top and her consequent downfall into nothing. Her father was the British prime minister, which of course singled her out from every other mere ordinary person. But Mia was unknown now; she had no identity, nothing. As far as I knew, she had not spoken to her father for many years and he did not know where she was and had seemingly given up on finding her. Or perhaps he had never cared enough in the first place. I may not have exactly had the right to proclaim such a statement, but it was quite justified to deduce that the man did not posess a heart to care about her at all in the first place.  
"I don't know what he wants," I said, quietly. "With Jim Moriarty, there will be no way of knowing until he wants until the time is right. For now, all we can do is wait."  
"_Wait_." She spat, rising from the armchair and standing just inches from me. Anger flickered within her eyes and shadows danced across her face. She never did take her eyes from mine. "Don't you understand? My whole life I've been waiting. I waited for my father to realise what he was doing to us all. I waited for my mother to come out of her depression. I found an escape and then I waited until someone could come along and save me from reality...from my own mind. And now, here I am again..._waiting_. I waited for you, Sherlock! I was here for you. I wanted to be here for you...and you just left. And still I'm waiting for you...I'm so sick and tired of _waiting_."  
"Mia -"  
"_No_." Her words were choked out between her ragged gasps of breath. I had seen her cry before, too many times, but this was different. She was slowly but surely beginning to fall apart. "I saw you."  
"What did you see?"  
"Don't pretend." She shook her head, angrily. "You and Miss Adler."  
"There is nothing between Miss Adler and I." I cleared my throat. "Nothing at all."  
"Please, Sherlock." Her voice was hollow. "Please don't lie to me."  
"I'm not lying to you." I choked out, suddenly overwhelmed by the desperation for her to believe me. "I've never lied to you."  
"But you kissed her," The pain in her voice caused her words to crack under their strain. She swallowed hard, my own throat shards of glass, and her voice became a hopeless whisper. "You kissed her."  
"I know." I lowered my head, suddenly ashamed of myself. "I was lonely."  
"Don't you understand?" She closed her eyes, as if the words themselves weighed down her heart. "I'm lonely too." For a moment, she looked so lost it pained me. Her eyes were wild and wide like a frightened rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. Her face crumpled again, as her voice softened into a broken whisper. "Sherlock, I...I don't know what's happening to me."  
I was aware not of reality, but time; the endless seconds folding seamlessly into one another as we came closer to something that was so irrevocably wrong and yet inexplicably right. I was aware of her scent. Her face mere inches from mine. Seconds passed and I swore I could hear our hearts beating. The sound drowned us until it was almost as if we had been submerged underwater; the sounds of the outside world distant and far away and muffled. Before I could allow any rationality to clear the fog from my mind, I kissed the very corner of her mouth. My lips lingered too long, aching for her.  
I thought she would pull away. I _waited_ for her to pull away. But she didn't. She just stared at me.  
"I won't let anything happen to you." I told her, before she could utter a single word, and then I swallowed. "You're the only light I've ever known."  
Her eyes began to fill with tears.  
"Don't cry." I whispered in her ear.  
A ragged sob escaped her throat. I stroked her hair and closed my eyes, in that moment wanting to remain beside her for the rest of my miserable and meaningless life...  
"Don't cry." I whispered again.  
"I can't help it."  
Her forehead rested against mine. Up close, I could see the freckles that patterned her nose. I longed to trace them with my fingertips. In my disorientation, I couldn't help but think how they reminded me of constellations.  
"I can't help it." She said again, her voice reduced to a faint whisper, except this time I knew she didn't mean crying.  
"I know." I said, softly. "Neither can I."  
And then I kissed her.


	35. Chapter 35

**Mia**

I looked at him and my breath caught in my throat. Our faces were only inches apart; I could see each small silver fleck in his eyes, tiny constellations in a galaxy of darkness. I felt myself get lost in his irises. They saw through me, as if I was made entirely of glass. And when he finally kissed me, his mouth alone compensated for and gave purpose to every single inch of misery within my life.  
Change. Alteration. It was a strange thing. Like being frozen and then being submerged in warm water. The change was gradual, and yet silmutaenously happened all at once. But I could no longer feel my skin, the blood in my veins, the beat of my heart. I was ice. Freezing and thawing. We both slipped into an empty void of time, an abyss, and we both knew that we would never be able to return.  
And kissing...it was like falling. That single moment when your heart jolted from shock, only to be quickly recovered, reassured, by the movement of another. Through the frost of fear, I felt comfort. Because I was falling but I was not alone. There was so much darkness within the world and coldness to overshadow every flicker of light but I was not alone.  
He stole his lips from mine, of course. Too soon. All too soon. And when, and only when, there was finally a pond of thorns and tangled weeds between us again, he looked at me.

**Sherlock**

I had loved, once.  
In my days of youth, now blurred and distorted like figments of a faded photograph, I recall faces distinctly. I had never been my age. In crumpled pieces of paper and scrawled notes and scientific research and examinations, I had been wise. Beyond my years, they said. And yet, not in this way. While I remained alone at lunch times with a book in my hands, my peers smoked cigarettes and kissed behind the bikesheds. I liked to observe particles under microscopes. They liked to sample pills and listen to music that caused my ears to bleed. At university, I had never expected things to change. I either infuriated people or made no impression on them at all. Either way, nobody bothered to get to know me. Until Natalie.  
She was pale, with freckled skin and dark brown eyes. Earnest. They always seemed to question you with inquisition, even if a question had not been asked. I don't remember much else, just the fact that she always wore plaid jumpers. Even when the weather was warm.  
I hadn't noticed her at first. In lectures she chose to sit towards the end of the auditorium, whilst I always sat up front to avoid painfully ignorant interraction from my fellow students. But she noticed me. One day, after a particularly tedious lecture in which the professor refused to take on board my correction on a chemical equation, she approached me.  
"Hi." She'd said, quite simply.  
"Hello." I had muttered, and then promptly changed direction so that she could not follow me into the courtyard. But she remained at my side anyway.  
"I don't see you around campus much." She'd commented.  
"I don't much regret that fact." I'd replied, bluntly.  
But she had just laughed. "Perhaps you'd like to walk together sometimes?"  
"Walk?" I had stared at her incredulously. "Why would I want company when walking?"  
"Because you're always alone." She had said, her tone matter of fact.  
"And what makes you think I dislike being alone?"  
"Because everyday you choose to surround yourself with crowds of people, even if you do not choose to interract with them."  
Gradually, after that first day, we began to see more of each other. In the library, she would often sit with me. She would read books about religion, whilst I would read about science.  
"You're taking a degree in advanced physics and chemisty, and yet you choose to read about religion?"  
"Yes." She had said, with a smile. "Your point being?"  
"Oh, nothing." I'd replied, sarcastically. "It's not as if the two subjects conflict each other completely at all."  
"Just because I'm studying what I believe to be the truth, doesn't mean I can't read about what other people believe in. Knowing that there is belief at all in this world means that people are still willing to believe in magic."  
"Magic?" I had scoffed. "Are you suffering a mid-life crisis? Do you wish you were seven years old again?"  
But, again, she had just smiled. As if there was something I didn't quite understand. She always did that and it both fascinated and infuriated me, because I considered myself to know a lot about pretty much everything and to be confronted by the assumption that I couldn't understand something was unsettling.  
And then began our "dates", if you could call them that. Natalie suggested attending concerts, or gatherings, but I would never listen. I took Natalie to strange places. Abandoned buildings, mostly. I found a quaint kind of beauty in things that other people found boring or failed to understand. But Natalie never complained. Though I was sure she never quite understood the places I took her to, she never seemed to question me. And, that in itself, was possibly why I became so fond of her as I did.  
But just when things had seemed so simple, my own mind's intentions became prevalent once again. I was scared at the prospect of trusting another human being in such a manner. There was so much beautiful symmetry within the world and, despite myself, I always found myself wanting to destroy it all.  
Natalie and I stopped sitting together in the library. And walking to lectures. And visiting strange places in the middle of nowhere. I was cold and cruel and, in return, she never spoke to me again.  
Months later, she found someone else; someone that didn't question her belief in magic. I saw them together. Happy. And my heart broke over and over and over again. It didn't stop breaking until those two years of university ended and I never saw them both again.  
I had loved her and I had let her go because of it. I knew that I would only ruin her. Soon enough, she too would have become mistrusting and cynical of the world around her. Soon enough, she would lose her belief in magic.  
But now, another stood before me. A girl younger than myself, and yet a girl who knew more of the world than I ever would. She was so beautiful and she would soon become broken and I couldn't bear it. I would only damage her. Fracture her. Alter her irrevocably.  
"We can't do this." I said, avoiding her gaze entirely.  
For once in my life I did not want to be logical. I wanted to forget the crippling doubt within my heart and my mind but it was too overwhelming. The realisation of everything that had happened washed over my skin in waves; shocking and painful and devastating.  
"Sherlock, I -" She tried to reach out to me, but I flinched away from her.  
"No." When I finally mustered up the courage to look into her eyes, I saw that they were filled with hurt. And even though it was what I had been expecting, it was so much more worse than I could ever have imagined.  
"We can't." I said again, more quietly. "Please, Mia, don't make this more difficult than it already is."  
"Of course," She nodded, as if she understood, but her expression had darkened. "This must be very difficult for you."  
I closed my eyes momentarily, almost ashamed. "I'm sorry."  
The anger within her eyes had subsided so that all that remained was hurt.  
"You're not sorry." She said, quietly. "You're not sorry at all."  
I opened my mouth to say something, anything at all, but I had no words. None at all.  
"It's fine." Her laughter was hollow. "Really. It was stupid of me to think you might actually be interested in someone like me..." And then she looked at me, her eyes pools of sad regret. "I'm still just that worthless street urchin John pulled off the streets...that's all I'll ever be to you."  
The distance between us had appeared again. I felt as if I was watching her slip through my fingers like sand.  
"Mia..." I whispered, helplessly. Hopelessly.  
But she had already left the room and, soon enough, closed the front door behind her.


	36. Chapter 36

**John**

Three words. Three syllables.  
That was it, and yet just looking at them caused my heart to clench tightly against my chest.  
I miss you.  
The curtains were still drawn, despite the fact it was late afternoon, causing the screen of my phone to glow and the words themselves to be illuminated, consequently making it harder to ignore them. To forget them.  
Louise.  
It still hurt. I could barely breathe whenever I thought of her.  
I...  
I loved her.  
"John."  
I leapt from my skin. There was a kind of vain hope within my heart that tricked me into believing when I turned my head, she would be standing before me. Of course, such a hope was foolish, and when I turned I was confronted by Sherlock.  
"Sherlock! For God's sake, when will you learn to stop appearing unexpectedly and scaring people half to death?" I began to breathe heavily, an old exercise my therapist had claimed help to calm a fleeting heart. It didn't work.  
Sherlock, however, did not stir. Normally in response to my impatient anger he would calmly reply with an infuriatingly witty comment, but my exclamation barely seemed to register within him at all. His face remained still, as if it was made entirely out of stone. Dim light seemed to radiate from the darkness of his eyes.  
"Sherlock?" My heart collided against my ribcage once again. The anger in my voice was quickly replaced by quivering but prevalent fear. "Sherlock...what's wrong? What's happened?"  
He looked at me then; but his eyes, despite their appearance, did not quite meet mine. It was as if he was not looking at me, but through me. They were filled with helplessness.  
"The girl is gone." He said finally. Quietly. Too quietly.  
I frowned. "The girl?"  
He said nothing. And then, finally, it dawned on me.  
"Mia?" I stared at him.  
He did not respond with words or a nod, but his eyes seemed to tell me all that I needed to know. Yes, they told me silently. A moment passed, and then another. All I could do was stare at him.  
"Where has she gone, Sherlock?" I clenched my fists together, as if in an attempt to maintain the little patience that remained within me.  
He said nothing once again. It was not in his nature to shrug; to shrug meant to admit ignorance and Sherlock did not like admitting such things. Instead, once again, he just stared at me. He was telling me he didn't know...that he didn't care.  
In the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had experienced anger. Frustration. Infuriation. But I had never known an anger that encompassed all those things and so much more with the intensity I felt now. I clenched my fists and then unclenched them again. My knuckles began to turn white.  
"Jim Moriarty is out there..." I stated, flatly. "...And you allowed her to leave."  
"The girl intended to set out on her own and find him herself anyway." He said, all too calmly, and folded his arms across his chest.  
The fact that he did not refer to her as "Mia", but "the girl", which only infuriated me further.  
"No." My laughter was hollow. Humourless. "You let her go alone. You let her leave."  
"Who was I to stop her?"  
"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I really don't know who you are."  
He sighed heavily. "Please, John, don't look at me like that."  
"Like what exactly?"  
"Like I'm your childhood hero and I've just crushed your dreams."  
"You were my hero," I told him. "Once. But I've learnt now that you can't possibly be a hero."  
He stared down at the floor, suddenly unable to meet my gaze.  
"All you do is let people down." I said, finally.  
He looked up at me, then, and his eyes looked as if they were filled with pain. But, as I turned away from him, I couldn't help but think how his every action seemed to be an illusion. An elaborate magic trick. His fall. His pain. His heart.


	37. Chapter 37

**Note: **Hello lovely people, thank you for all your reviews! I'm slowly updating, partly because I'm still trying to uncover a few loose ends but mostly because I'm getting towards the end of this now and I don't want to stop writing it! I can only apologise for the short chapters. Keep commenting, I love to hear your feedback :)

**Mia**

I did not think about what I was doing or where I was going; all I knew was that I had to go somewhere. Anywhere at all. I had to get away...escape.  
The sky was just beginning to turn orange and pink, preparing itself for the moment when the sun would finally set. It used to be my favourite time of day; not quite evening, but not quite afternoon either. It was the time when the world seemed to ache with anticipation. And the time the world looked the most beautiful...but I could no longer see the beauty within the world. I couldn't.  
I walked through endless streets, not knowing where I was or where I was going. People blurred by. Everyone remained in their own state of oblivion. They were not aware of all that had changed...how could they have been? My whole world had been shaken, stricken by destruction, and yet the outside world had not altered. I almost wanted to shout at them all, perfectly safe and content in their own perfect worlds. Look at me, I wanted to scream, can't you see that I'm broken?  
Sherlock's words seemed to echo with every footstep.  
_"We can't do this..."_  
Couldn't what? I kicked a stone with the dirty sole of my Converse trainer angrily. Couldn't be with me? Couldn't mislead me? Couldn't pretend he loved me?  
I walked for a little while longer as the sky burst into a crescendo of colour. I took a bus as the sun began to set, and then a train and then another and got lost somewhere inbetween. I didn't care anymore. Every bone in my body seemed to ache with fatigue and disappointment. My heart hurt. I leant my head against the cold glass of the dirty window and closed my eyes.  
I awoke suddenly to find that the sky had darkened. Blue. Deep blue. Dusk had fallen. The elderly lady beside me had nudged me. When I looked around, the train was almost deserted. She looked at me with pity as I stared at her but said nothing more and walked away onto the platform.  
I was completely alone.


	38. Chapter 38

**Sherlock**

John could no longer look at me. In fact, his eyes remained elsewhere entirely and the fleeting moments they did meet mine, he was quick to snatch them away again. He couldn't bear to be around me.  
"You find her, Sherlock." His voice was low, almost calm, but strengthened with a kind of force I had never heard within his voice before. "You find her."  
"How can I possibly -"  
"Don't give me that. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear anything you say, unless it has some sort of relevance to how we can find Mia."  
"John," I spoke very softly, surprising him. He turned to me, finally, and met my gaze. For one moment I thought that there might be a chance; a chance he might forgive me. I shook my head, helplessly. "I'm sorry."  
But he just snorted. "It's too late for that. She's gone."  
Our words were lost, drowned out, by the rain that had begun to fall from the darkened sky outside. We stared at it, silently, for a moment. It washed away the dirt from the glass and almost seemed to wash away the remnants of Mia...

**Mia**

The station was quiet. Almost deserted. The few people that lingered on the platform walked on quickly and did not glance back at me. I closed my eyes as the breeze tangled my hair. The air smelt of salt. A sense of crushing helplessness washed over me as I realised I didn't even know where I was. There was an ache in my chest that did not fade. I was aware of nothing but the sound of my heart beating and the silence that now confined me. Silence can be louder than a thousand words said. Silence can be so loud when all you can hear is the sound of your own heart.  
I walked slowly, trampling on broken glass and crushed cigarette butts. I glanced at myself as a train sped past, hopelessly searching for my reflection before it disappeared completely. I no longer looked like me; I was a ghost. A ghost of what used to be. A ghost of what I once was. My eyes were dark and hollow and unfamiliar.  
The streets were somewhat more crowded than the station. I stood on the cold concrete as the headlights of cars and buses flashed before my eyes, temporarily blinding me. I slipped my numb hands into the pockets of my hoodie in a vain attempt to warm them, but my fingers brushed across something. I frowned and withdrew a crumpled packet of cigarettes. I hadn't smoked in such a long time, not that I had ever smoked particularly often. I'd been at college and fallen into a crowd of people who smoked cigarettes and various other things aswell, though I'd never tried any of their other stuff. I didn't even enjoy it that much...just something to pass the time. It was strange, I hadn't even thought of anyone I had known at college since I had been staying at Baker Street, let alone thinking about smoking a cigarette. I could barely even remember any of their faces...a life before John and Sherlock and Baker Street seemed blurred and distorted and not quite real...  
I lit a cigarette, my fingers cold and numb and shaking as I fumbled with the lighter I had found in my other pocket. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the smoke and breathed hard as it filled my lungs. I stared at the ash as it glowed and slowly flickered and crumbled into the cold night air.  
_"You're the only light I've ever known..."_  
I was beginning to cry. I couldn't help it. I continued to walk, the cigarette I had been smoking long forgotten between my fingertips, and tried my best to ignore the curious eyes of the people I passed. Some looked with pity and then looked away; others shouted stuff. I wanted to curl up in a corner of a dark, smaller and smaller and smaller, until I became a part of the night and disappeared completely.  
I smelt the sea before I saw it; the scent of saltwater both familiar and strange. When I glanced around I saw a sign that read: SALTFLEET BEACH. A splinter of pain grazed my heart as I stared at the peeling paint. Saltfleet. This was a place from another time. A happier time. I had come here when I was seven years old, Beth even younger. Before my father faded away and my mother lost herself, we had come here and camped for a night on the beach. Back then, we had no worries. Only the sky above us and the saltwater in the air. I stood on the pier, the cold wind touching my skin, and stared at the lights reflected onto the water below.  
For a moment I considered what it might be like to jump.  
I stared at the dark surface of the water for a while. The saltwater breeze caused me to shiver. It was so cold and all I could hear was the waves below and the sound of my own heart beating against my chest. It was all too much. Everything was too much. I turned from the pier and crushed my cigarette onto the concrete beneath my feet, watching as its amber light flickered brightly and then finally dimmed until all that was left was ash. And then I saw him. He was a shadow. For a moment I wondered if I might be mistaken. Perhaps he really was just another part of the night sky. But then I saw the glint of the silver knife in his hands.  
He stood before me.  
The man with black holes for eyes.  
Jim Moriarty.


	39. Chapter 39

**Mia**

I was drowning.

My lungs were scalded by the salt in the air with each struggling breath; choking on cold, dirty water. I was no longer aware of time. Time had ceased to exist. Right here, right now, such a thing as a ticking clock was irrelevant. All that mattered now was the person that now stood before me.

He had not altered. Changed at all, in fact. In my shadowed nightmares I had not been able to recall much - only his dark, unforgiving eyes. Now that he stood before me, in reality, I wondered how I could ever have forgotten at all; his hair was neatly combed, parted slightly to one side, and he wore an impeccably pristine suit. That, too, was black but the colour of his shirt was a deep charcoal grey. It appeared as if he was dressed for some sort of occasion, but then I supposed he always dressed like that. Although, this really was an occasion. Of sorts. He had found me, after all.

Now, his eyes bore a kind of ferocity; a caged animal staring into the mirrored glass eyes of his captor. I wondered how he, such a man, could feel trapped. Confined. Imprisoned. But perhaps it was not a person he was trapped by; perhaps it was the world.

"Well, well, well." He rolled the words on his tongue as if their sweet taste pleased him greatly, savouring them with a satisfied smile. "It's good to finally see you again, Miss Grey."

I said nothing. In that moment, I could say nothing at all. My silence seemed to prompt him to take a few steps closer towards me and I could not muster the courage to back away. The movement caused my breath to catch in my throat.

"I've missed you." He whispered in my ear.

I flinched, not realising he had come so close. I felt my blood burn and then cool again until it froze completely. The sound of my fleeting heart almost drowned out the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

"How -" My voice was hoarse. Hollow. "How did you find me?"

"Such trivial facts will become apparent in good time," He answered, in a tone of voice the epitome of nonchalance. "Don't worry your pretty little head, my love."

His words caused my heart to clench tightly against my chest. _My love_. Through my terror, I almost laughed. Love was quite the opposite of what my heart felt in this moment in time. All I felt was coldness. In the few moments in which we had fallen silent, our voices lost to the sound of the waves below, my thoughts wandered through the darkness and found Sherlock. Did he wonder where I was? Was he concerned? Did he even care at all? I couldn't breathe. I bit down on my lip until the jagged edge of a tooth broke the skin and all I could taste was blood.

"Don't do _that_." He shook his head at me, mock scalding me. And then he leant in closer and for one sickening moment I thought he was going to kiss me. I stared at him. Frozen.

"Please." I choked out. My voice was weak. "Don't."

His eyes glinted before they closed and I opened my mouth to utter a cry but no sound escaped my lips. But he did not kiss me. What he did instead frightened me more. He licked the warm blood that seeped from the wound and then smiled.

"Oh, Mia." He traced his fingertips against my frozen cheek. "Don't look so afraid; that, too, will come. But for now, let us concentrate on the task at hand."

I stared at him. "The...task at hand?"

"Yes." He smirked. "Taking you away from here."

The fact only then occured to me that we were completely alone. The pier was deserted. The streets were empty. It was late. It did not appear as if he had brought any of his henchmen...

"And how do I propose to do such a thing without any help?" He drank in my expression and savoured my confusion. "Oh, but that would be _telling_. What I will say is that I wanted to do this alone; find you. And now...here we are."

I shook my head. The realisation sank into my veins that it was over. He had won and I had lost. There was nothing left.

"Oh, it was beautifully nostalgic of you to come here of all places, if a little far from where I will proceed to take you but that does not matter. It's nice here, isn't it? The air smells just the same...does it make you miss coming here when you were younger?"

"Please." My voice was barely even a whisper and my vision began to blur through tears. "Please stop all of this."

"Stop? Aren't you having fun?"

I stared at him, terrified, but he just chuckled.

"I am awfully fond of your incredulous expressions," He remarked and then proceeded to kiss my cheek. His lips were ice, but my blood was already frozen. No warmth remained within me. "And I _am_ having fun."

I just stared at him helplessly.

"So," He stroked the ice of my skin as he traced his fingertips across my cheek. "Ask me how."

"H-how?"

"How I would know such a thing," He stated, boredly. "You coming here as a child. Go on. Ask me...you know you want to."

"I...how?"

He grinned. "A certain someone informed me of such a fact. I can't tell you who just yet but don't worry you'll soon find out. I'd hate to deprive you of such knowledge, it is rather _delectable_."

"Please leave me alone." I mumbled, though I knew my words would make no difference at all.

He just smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to do that, my love."

"But why do this?" I demanded, mustering the little courage I had left. "Why me? Why now?"

"Because, my love, you are a beautiful, vulnerable, broken girl. A girl that lost her way and found herself trapped in a labyrinth...not to mention, a particularly _unique_ girl who happened to thaw the ice around our favourite detective's heart..." His lips curved into a twisted smile. "Need I go on?"

I shook my head. "Sherlock does not care for me."

"Don't be so modest, Amelia. Self-deprecation is not a characteristic to be admired, despite what you hopeless little mortals deem it to be. I have seen the way Sherlock Holmes looks at you. And, more importantly, I have seen the way you look at him..."

His words physically pained me. My heart began to ache. _Sherlock_.

"Please," I whispered. "I do care for Sherlock...but that is irrelevant. He does not care for me."

"Oh Amelia, do you really find it so difficult to admit that you are in love with another human being?" He sighed, heavily.

"Fine." My vision began to blur. I hated myself. I was crying and I knew that that was exactly what he wanted, but I couldn't help it. "I love him, I love him, I love him, I love him! Is that what you want - to hear me say it? I _love_ him. What more do you want?!"

"I want you, Mia." He stated, matter of factly.

I realised it was the first time he had addressed me by "Mia", rather than "Amelia" or "Miss Grey". It was somehow so much more sinister. But he did not wait for me to reply.

"I've followed your every footstep, from the day you were born. Daughter of a well-renowned cabinet member, well in line to becoming Britain's next Prime Minister. I ensure that I keep tabs on people like you, my love; families like yours. You continue your everyday lives in a state of complete oblivion, not knowing how truly significant and important you are. Or, rather, _can_ be." He scoffed. "I know secrets about you that you do not even know yourself. Secrets that could topple a nation. Secrets that could burn every foundation of your life in an instant. And, up until recently, you barely even knew I existed." He smirked. "Funny really, isn't it?"

It took a moment for his words to sink through my skin and into my blood.

"Secrets?" I whispered.

"Yes, many of them."

I turned my head away to look at the sky. It had darkened so that it was almost completely black. The moon was a pale sliver of silver that illuminated its surrounding clouds. I closed my eyes.

"Are you trying to figure out if you're dreaming?" He called, softly, his words echoing through me like wind. "Because I can assure that this isn't a dream, or a nightmare. This is real."

I did not answer. I opened my eyes and stared down at the sea below. The waves continued to crash against the rocks and in that moment I wanted to be part of them; I longed for the current to take me and drag me to another shore where I might be able to forget everything of the past.

"And what if I jump?" My voice was calm, despite my fleeting heart. He was silent. "What if I end it all, all of this, now?"

The air seemed to sing with the waves, their voices calling like a distant lullaby. I looked out at the sea and knew that I could do it. A single step and it would all be over. But I never got that chance because before I could make any sudden movement at all, he was by my side once again.

"I'm afraid that you will never know the answer to that question, my love." He muttered, and I cried out in pain.

I stared down at my arm, helplessly. My skin was stained with scarlet. Blood. My blood. He had used a needle that cut into my skin so deeply, I was becoming numb. My vision began to blur. As the lights began to flicker and then slowly began to die, I stared up at the sky and realised that there were no stars. The sky was consumed entirely by darkness.

He was leaning over me. I had fallen. How had I not felt the impact? His face was fading from sight. The harder I tried to hold onto his eyes, the more the sight of them seemed to evade me. I was desperate to hold onto the sight of anything, anything at all, even if the sight itself filled me with dread.

"Dear me, Amelia." He whispered, as he kissed my ice skin. "Dear me."

And then the lights finally died out.


	40. Chapter 40

**John**

Sherlock had been silent for an indefinite amount of time, his eyes remaining tightly closed, except for the occasional incoherent mumble. His silence only infuriated me further, as I began to pace angrily up and down across the chipped floorboards.

"May I remind you, Sherlock, that Mia is in terrible danger and that her life is possibly at stake?" I snapped, impatiently.

Sherlock opened one eye and squinted at me. "_Patience_, John."

"Patience?" I stared at him, incredulously, quite unable to believe his words. "You want me to attempt to be patient...at a time like this?"

"Excellent, John," He snapped in reply. "Top marks."

I shook my head in disbelief. "You once decoded a series of completely random numbers for Miss Adler in less than eight seconds. You've had _hours_, Sherlock."

"Those were flight details, this is a missing persons case." Sherlock replied, somewhat defensively. His eyes darkened. "Besides, I fail to see the severity; the girl left of her own accord, just as she planned. She will not be in any danger. She would have taken the first train home...she'll be safe now. Perhaps she even returned to Downing Street. Either way, she chose...she chose to leave..." His words trailed off into nothing. For one moment, I saw his eyes betray a tint of sadness. But almost as soon as it appeared, it was gone again; lost in the depths of his irises. I doubted whether it would ever resurface again. He swallowed. Hard. "Just let her be, John. Just let her be."

"Let her be?" I shook my head. "How can you even entertain such a thought? I know that you care about her, Sherlock. I know why you're in love with her. God, _I_ cared about the girl. She...she cares, you know? She _cares_. I thought I was in love with her...but it turns out she was just the person to make me realise that I was in love with someone. It broke my heart, but I think that I always knew it all along; she loved _you_, Sherlock. She still does."

"John..."

But he said nothing. He simply stared at me, helplessly; I had never seen him look so lost in my life. I opened my mouth to say something, anything at all, but before I could utter a single word, a sound cried out. Sherlock's phone. A bomb suddenly exploding in an empty, desolate battlefield. He withdrew the phone from the pocket of his coat and glanced at the screen. Something within his expression shifted. Altered. He became very still. His face was ashen.

"Sherlock?"

He did not respond, never taking his eyes from the screen. His silence caused a spark to flare within my heart. I couldn't bear it; the silence. The _not knowing_.

"Sherlock! You tell me now or God help me, I'll -"

He held out the phone to me, suddenly, surprising me. My words evaporated into the air, long forgotten. I stared at the words, my heart falling fast into the dark pit of my stomach.

**SENTIMENT - IT'S A FUNNY THING, WOULDN'T YOU AGREE?**

**YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.**

**THINK.**

**M**


	41. Chapter 41

**Mia**

I was falling.

Faster and faster. I was Alice, and this was my rabbit hole. I chased the darkness, held out my hands, to hold onto a piece of the night. But the stars only slipped through my fingers. I kept waiting for the end. A conclusion. A finality. But it never came. I kept tumbling further and further into an abyss. Through my tangled state of conciousness, half awake and half dreaming, I held onto the memory of his eyes. Silver and green and blue. They somehow succeeded in both comforting me and filling me with despair; causing me to recall what I had lost. But when I finally awoke, surrounded completely by darkness, I knew that I would probably never see them again. Those beautiful, haunting eyes. Now that my own eyes were open, I could not conjure his; they remained distant and blurred, like a faded photograph. The eyes that greeted me in reality were the eyes that had haunted me for so long. And when my vision finally restored itself properly, his pale face finally materializing into focus, I could not suppress the whimper that escaped my throat. It was a whimper, a cry for help, because I now had no choice but to come to terms with the fact that I had lost and he had won.

"You're awake." He announced, with a dark smile. His voice was not cold but light, as if greeting an old friend, and somehow managed to frighten me even more.

I stared up at him helplessly, a moth circling dangerously close to a flame. He chuckled, as if seeing me helpless only caused him to enjoy it all even more. He leant closer towards me and I felt his hot breath across my cheek and then in my ear.

"I've missed you."

His breath and his words made me shiver. I wanted to push him away but I was weak and I knew that doing so was hopeless anyway. I kept my gaze focused on what was ahead of me; a blank wall with peeling paint, darkened by the flickering dim light bulb suspended above.

"You've been sleeping for so long...you wouldn't even let me kiss you goodnight."

A sickness settled over my stomach, curling it with unease as he leant even closer towards me.

"Please...don't." I whispered. But it was hopeless.

"Shhhh," He placed a cold finger to my frozen lips and allowed a smile to fall across his lips. "Miss Grey."

I just stared at him. The feeling of his skin against mine was enough to numb my whole body. I could barely breathe, my heart knocking so hard against my ribcage that it began to ache. My throat was dry, but when I tried to swallow I choked into a fit of coughing. I turned away from him, on my hands and knees, doubling over as I coughed until my throat felt raw. I wanted to crawl into another dark corner somewhere to get away but all he had to do was grab me and pull me back to him and he would be even closer to me than before. I was too weak to struggle. I couldn't fight him anymore.

"You're not going to run away again, are you?" He pretended to frown and shouted after me in mock distress. "No, Mia, don't go! Don't leave!" And then he smiled, a smile so bright that it was menacing. A smile that chilled my blood. "You already ran away from me once; that wasn't very nice."

He moved too quickly for me to react. Before I could do anything at all, he pushed me hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of my lungs and my ribcage began to ache. All I wanted was the pain to stop; the darkness to fade. The lights were blurring, but soon enough his face was before mine again. He smirked and I felt his hot breath on my neck. My eyes began to blur with tears but I couldn't allow myself to cry before him. That was what he wanted; fear. My fear.

"Isn't this fun?" He whispered in my ear. "Playing these games."

"This isn't a game." My voice was ragged, betraying my own words by proving only further that he had won.

"Isn't it?" He leant even closer towards me and kissed the skin just by my earlobe; my blood froze from where his lips had touched.

"Don't." I choked out.

He savoured my discomfort and crumpled my heart in his hands, smiling down at the veins and arteries he crushed. "...And how is the _famous_ consulting detective?"

_Sherlock_. My lungs were immediately drained of the little air they had possessed. I couldn't breathe.

"You thought he loved you." He tone was patronising, words lilting in his Irish accent, as he smirked. "Sherlock doesn't love anyone."

I closed my eyes again, wanting to block out his words despite the fact that they contained fragments of truth. It was then that another voice spoke, echoing from beyond the darkness.

"Oh Jim, you really are naughty." The voice itself made my blood run cold. "Leave the girl be."

Irene Adler.


	42. Chapter 42

**Note**: Sherlock series 3 has begun filming! I'm so excited, I can barely function. Consequently, I have attempted to invest this uncontrollable excitement into beginning my own "end". That made no sense at all. I can only apologise. Thank you for keeping up with this, I love you all.

**Sherlock**

_Think._

Just think.

Each letter seemed like a single pinprick of torment.

"Sherlock..." He whispered. "What are we going to do?"

Sentiment; Moriarty was right, it certaintly was a funny thing. When Amelia Grey had first entered 221B, my first thoughts had been riddled with hate. I saw sadness within her; she seemed to exhale pity with every breath. I'd told myself that I'd despised her because I despised weakness but, really, I despised her because I saw myself in her. I recognised that sadness...that loneliness that caused my heart to shrivel up with fear every moment that passed. I was afraid of being alone. I was so afraid...

"_Sherlock_."

I flinched, as if I had been burnt. John's breathing was heavy and ragged as he stared at me. He seemed to be questioning me but, for once, I did not know the answer. Hopelessness began to descend; settling over my skin and then, finally, infiltrating my bloodstream. All the while, the same thought continued to echo through my head: _she's gone_. _She's gone and you let her leave...you let her die._

Something within John snapped. Suddenly, there was a vase in his hands. Blue china. Mrs Hudson's. Inside, a bunch of wilting tulips that seemed to be pleading for death. I did nothing but stare, as he hurled the vase at the wall. It shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, crushing all hope of it ever being able to be put back together again; the debris of all that had been destroyed and lost.

"_Listen to me_." John shrieked.

I had never heard him sound so angry, so hateful, before. He was shaking, his hands trembling with scarlet blood from where some of the jagged edges had cut them. We were silent for a moment, simply watching one another. The ragged gasps of breath eventually appeared to slow, the rapid rise and fall of his chest seemed to decrease. Perhaps it was the sound of china smashing against a wall, or perhaps the pain within John's voice, that somehow seemed to shake me from the abyss in which I seemed to have fallen into. It was as if I had been submerged underwater, the outside world distant and distorted, and only now was I able to see the clear light of day. The cold truth of reality.

"We just have to think, John." My voice was surprisingly even, despite my trembling thoughts. "Just forget everything else and _think_."

He let out the breath he had been holding and nodded, his jaw firm in sudden concentration. "So far we know that Mia left roughly two hours ago. In that time, Moriarty somehow was able to find her and took her to whether he is intending on keeping her. He texted you to tell you this, so clearly he wants you to attempt to find him -"

"Us, John." I interrupted, suddenly, knowing that this fact was all too important. "He wants _us_ to find him."

John paused for a moment, with an intense gaze, but then nodded again and continued. "OK, us. So, this is clearly a significant part of his plan. After all, what fun is all of this intricately devised plan if there isn't somebody to attempt to unravel it...did he leave any other clues? Hints?"

I shook my head.

"And what about the number?"

"Withheld. Of course." I sighed, heavily. "He wants us to figure out where he's taken her and, consequently, he has given us nothing."

"What about the case with the missing children?" John questioned. "The Hansel and Gretel recreation? You found out where he was hiding them from a specific type of brick dust."

"He's been thorough this time," The despair in my voice was too evident to ignore. "He hasn't left any traces."

"Ah," said John. "But that is where you are wrong. Like I said, Moriarty _wants_ us to find him. Therefore, he must have left us something...some sort of trace. The question is...what?"

Despite the situation, there was something hopelessly amusing about the fact John had taken on my character. It appeared as if we had very much, for once, swapped roles. I could have smirked...but then I frowned. Without saying a word, I left John where he was standing and walked out of the room and into the kitchen. To my relief, Mrs Hudson was nowhere to be found. It was comforting that she was away from Baker Street, even if only for a little while. Her presence irritated me but, for the most part, it was simply because I couldn't bear the thought of her being harmed in some way. But, Mrs Hudson had some uses. Magnificant uses, I should add. She was always itching to clear up my belongings - "experiments", I called them; "mess", she deemed them. That meant that whatever couldn't be classified as an "experiment" was always tidily maintained and, for that, I had never before been more grateful...there, in the very centre of the kitchen table, carefully propped up against the fruit bowl, were the three envelopes Moriarty had sent.

"The envelopes..."

I turned, surprised, to find John standing in the doorway. Now, staring at them in the dim light of dusk that filtered through the window, it all seemed so _obvious._

Without another word, I began to examine each in turn. I had examined them plenty of times, but never in such detail as I had foolishly never thought they would come to play such a significant part. They had always explicitly offered us clues...I had never even considered the possibility they might contain some implicit kind of meaning.

"I'm not sure what we're looking for exactly." John said.

"As ever, John, you observe but do not _see_." I said, with a slight smile.

John looked at me in confusion. "Usually it's the other way round."

"You've made some progress..." I told him, wryly. "However, you still have much to learn. Concentrate, my dear Watson."

He watched silently as I produced the chemically-enhanced UV LEV torch I always kept in my pocket, just in case any occasion arose in which I could not make a visit to the lab to use Molly's professional equipment.

"A torch." John stated, flatly. "Just a tad anti-climatic."

I just smiled and flicked the switch. Immediately, the thin paper was flooded with pale violet light. John's eyes widened as the scrawled letters were suddenly illuminated before him. The words themselves had been written in phospherescent ink. A nice touch, I thought.

_The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea_

_In a beautiful pea-green boat._

"I remember that poem," He commented. "My mother used to read it to me from this book of stories and fairytales to get me to sleep."

"That's lovely, John, but there are slightly more pressing matters at hand."

He frowned. "But it's just another of Moriarty's little rhymes. What does it tell us?"

I patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Ah, John. I really do envy you sometimes. You must really have so much _freedom_ in that empty little head of yours."

He glared at me. "I could think of many insults to counter that statement, but, seeing as we're in somewhat of a crisis, I will restrain myself. What, may I ask, does it tell us, Sherlock?"

"The Owl and the Pussycat." I could not prevent the triumph that washed over me, chasing away the darkness and doubt that had almost settled for good. "The bookshop. John, we've found him."


	43. Chapter 43

**Mia**

"The Woman" emerged silently from the darkness like a ghost. Her face was shadowed but, in the half light, I could still clearly see the curve of her scarlet lips. It was her smile that finally stole any lingering sense of hope that had still clung to my heart.

"I'm sorry we have to meet again in such circumstances, Amelia." She said, though her voice was void from any trace of remorse or regret. "_Such_ a shame."

I said nothing. I had no words; nothing at all. I stared down at the chipped floorboards beneath me; suddenly merely looking into her souless eyes became too much.

"Don't be afraid." Her voice was like cold wind. An echo. She tilted my chin up so that my eyes could meet hers again; her fingernails were long and sharp, like broken glass.

"I'm not afraid -" My voice was lost to a strangled cry of pain. With a sudden flinch of her arm, she struck me across one of my cheeks. In my blurred state of confusion, it was impossible to tell which side. I clutched both in my dirt-stained hands and choked out a helpless whimper.

"_Do not answer me back._" She hissed, through gritted teeth. Somewhere, from beyond the darkness, Jim Moriarty chuckled in amusement.

Blood. It filled my mouth, tainting my breath until it was all I could taste. I wanted to spit it at her, watch in satisfaction as the scarlet stained her porcelain skin, but I knew that doing so would only worsen matters. Instead, I spat it out onto the floor and, in doing so, scratched my throat raw in rasps of coughing. Tiny pools of crimson patterned the floorboards like poppies.

"You see, Amelia, pain is a strange thing." The Woman said, savouring the words on her tongue with a smile etching its way across her lips. "Pain is something feared by so many, and yet I believe pain can tell you a lot about a person. A coward will flinch from any form of slight pain. They are the people to be pitied, perhaps even loathed. A person capable of withstanding great pain, on the other hand, is a person to be admired...tell me, Amelia, how much pain are you able to take?"

I looked at her, then, through a fog of disillusion and dignity corrupted by betrayal. "Torture me. Go on. Do whatever you want. I only ask that you tell me one thing."

She smirked. "And what makes you assume that I will tell you anything?"

"I don't assume, I _know_."

"You sound awfully like our dear old friend Mr Holmes," Her eyes darkened and the smile that had long ago fallen across her lips became venomous. "Please do not think for one second, Miss Grey, that you are in any kind of position to be assured of anything."

"I know that you will tell me because you can't bear to keep your actions in the dark," I said, quietly. "Your only accomplice is Jim Moriarty. You're dying to tell someone, anyone, about your conspiracy. What fun is going to all this effort without your final humiliation...telling me how you fooled me, Doctor Watson _and_ Sherlock Holmes?"

Her eyes flickered with amusement before she turned to the shadowed figure who stood just metres away. "What do you say, Jim?"

A smile bled across his lips. "Enlighten Miss Grey, tell her everything she desires to know. And when you are finished, inform me and it will be my turn to talk to her."

"As you wish." The Woman responded, her smile tinted with amusement.

I closed my eyes and listened to the echoing of his footsteps. The sound of the door closing was so slight and so quiet that for a moment I questioned if he had really left the room at all. But there was something about the way the ache within my chest had diminished slightly that told me otherwise; the dark shadows that followed him had lifted, if only momentarily. Irene Adler and I were alone.

"I read the case file, you know." My voice broke through the silence, like a gunshot shattering glass. "_Your_ case file."

"Anything interesting?" She inquired. Another condescending smile, riddled with disdain.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson helped you. Protected you, even. And you betrayed them...why?"

"Betrayal is such a strong word," She replied. "I'd substitute 'motivated'".

"You fell in love with him."

"I _fooled_ him." She spat. "Do not feign innocence when you are just as guilty as I am."

"Guilty?" I stared at her.

"The little girl lost act." She snapped, wrinkling her nose with distaste. "Dr Watson found you on a street corner, did he? Hardly likely, I'd say. I think you _meant_ for them both to find you. You knew exactly what you were doing when you attempted to make both of them fall in love with you. You were just waiting for the right moment to break both of their hearts silmutaenously..."

In that moment, I knew. Her thinly veiled hatred, her lace mask of confidence and mystery, was nothing but smoke and mirrors. Security behind obscurity, I realised.

"Jealousy." I said, quietly. "That's why, isn't it?"

Something within her eyes flickered.

"You're still in love with him. Sherlock. But you're ashamed of the notion that you might ever be capable of loving anything at all...and so you cower behind this...this _image_. That's why you wanted to help him - Moriarty, the man who frightens you more than anything. You'd rather work with him than risk working against him. You knew that, in doing so, you would go against Sherlock. That would mask your feelings for him, temporarily at least. And in doing _that_, you could gain revenge on me."

"Excellent work, Miss Grey." She said. "Sherlock has taught you well, but I'm afraid I cannot offer you a round of applause." She took a step closer, out of the shadows, so that half her face became illuminated once more by a single shaft of light. "I feel _nothing_ for Sherlock Holmes and I am afraid of _nothing_. You think you have deciphered me, but you are wrong. You know nothing. Only pieces and fragments that you have used to build an illusion. In contrast, I know _everything_ about you. And what you are not quite yet aware of, Miss Grey, is exactly what I can do to you. Until then, perhaps I can offer you a preliminary debut..."

**John**

"We wait until nightfall."

I stared up at him, the letter still in my hands. The paper was so thin that I was sure if I held it up to the window, the sunlight could bleach its scrawled words and turn them completely invisible. "Nightfall?"

He nodded solemnly. "Congratulations, John. Again you continue to impress me with your skills of recalling passages of speech."

"Shut up, Sherlock, I'm just having difficulty trying to decipher whether you're being deliberately ironic or simply completely insane? By nightfall, Moriarty could have _killed_ her...do you care about her at all?"

His eyes darkened. "Of course he's not going to kill her. Don't you _see_? She is an imperative element to his plan. He won't kill her; he _can't_."

"Then why must we go by nightfall? Why not now? Time is of the essence, Sherlock."

"That is where you're mistaken. The Owl and the Pussycat is situated on a very busy road. Going there in broad daylight is simply asking for trouble. Moriarty is bound to have people watching. We go by night because there is more of a chance of blending in and therefore less of a chance of being seen..."

"I hate to admit it, but you are very logical." I said, grudgingly.

"Oh, I'm not logical, John," Sherlock retorted. "You are simply stupid."

I glared at him. "Or maybe you're just an annoying dick."

"Maybe," He agreed, wryly. "But an annoying dick that cares, nonetheless."

I smiled slightly. "So you admit it, then."

He rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. "Admit _what_, John?"

"That you care about her," I said, matter of factly. "A lot."

He glared at me with a look of such disdain that, despite the dark circumstances we found ourselves in, I was unable to stifle a chuckle. I had long ago learnt that Sherlock saved the worst of disdain for the strongest of his emotions.

"In the most professional sense of the word...yes, I suppose she's tolerable."

I rolled my eyes but decided not to question him further, knowing that his infuriating silence was inevitable. "So...what are we supposed to do until nightfall, Sherlock?"

"Oh, my dear Watson, we sit tight and wait."


	44. Chapter 44

**Mia**

I was awoken by the sound of footsteps echoing across the floorboards. My eyes were weighed down by a fatigue that infiltrated every limb, every bone, of my body. My heart continued to knock against my ribcage tirelessly, like a frightened bird attempting to escape its trap. But there was no escape. My skin was cold but something warm trickled from my forehead onto my left cheek. I was breathing, but only just; my lungs were tightened, suffocated, constricted by an ache in my chest that had not faded. I must have closed my eyes, because the echoed footsteps cease and all that was left was silence.

"Amelia," He whispered, as his breath danced across my cheek like the touch of a ghost. When he whispered my name again, he uttered it like a hushed but poisonous lullaby. "_Ah-me-li-a_..."

I said nothing, staring absently into the darkness. _There is no hope. There is nothing left_.

"Look at me." I had never heard Jim Moriarty speak so softly before...but I couldn't. It was the last fragment of vague dignity I possessed.

"_Look at me._" He said again and, this time, his voice was dark. Forceful.

I turned to him helplessly, drowsily, finally succumbing to everything I had been trying to escape for so long.

"Are you ready, my love?" He trailed kisses across my earlobe, nose, my cheek and then, finally, halted a mere inch from my lips. His breath should have warmed them, but I was frozen. I had turned to ice long ago. The corners of his mouth turned up into a half-smile, never taking his eyes from my own lips.

"Ready?" I was too exhausted, too broken, to fight him. "For what?"

"To listen to your story," He said. "To hear the secrets about yourself that only I have ever known."

"Tell me." My voice had been reduced to a strangled whisper.

"First, kiss me." He took my hand in his and pressed it to his chest. "I want you to _feel_ something."

"You're insane." I choked out, staring at our entwined hands.

"How observational." His eyes were terrifyingly empty. Black holes. They leaked no light from within. They were simply darkness. His hand remained over my own, pressing it against his chest.

Slowly, cautiously, I pressed my lips to the very corner of his mouth. They were so cold, I almost screamed. He was a corpse. Dead. Lifeless. I ensured that my cheek touched his so that his own became smeared with my blood. I hoped it would repulse him, but he just smiled as I began to quiver.

"Can you feel it?" He asked.

Finally, he took his hand from my own. Mine remained where it was, pressed against the fabric of his shirt. And then, I felt it. Or rather, didn't feel it. There was no rhythm beneath his chest, no sign of a heartbeat. Nothing at all.

I snatched my hand away and stared at him in fright. He just stared back at me in amusement.

"Strange, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "It's not strange at all, if you think about it."

"_Touché_," He smirked. "Now, dear, I'd consider being a lot nicer to me, if you want me to tell you what you don't know."

I remained silent, knowing that I no longer had any other choice. The fatique was beginning to fade slightly and I began to feel more awake...more alive. I almost preferred the dull lethargy; it caused everything to seem a lot less real.

"Once upon a time there was a powerful king, the most powerful king in all the land in fact. There was a queen too, and two beautiful princesses, but the king did not care for them as much as he should have. He was selfish and cruel and thought nothing of his wife or his daughters, immersed himself only in the power he possessed over the land and the people he was able to control. The queen felt lost and very much alone and, in order to escape her loneliness, drank a magic potion. She would drink this a lot, so much so that she began to embarrass the king. Affected his image in a negative light. The little princesses were left alone, forgotten about, though the queen tried her best to look after them. The older princess took care of the younger princess, though she too felt very alone. And then finally, one day, the king grew sick of the queen drinking her magic potion. He was drunk with power. Jealous. And so that night he followed her deep, deep into the woods, and put her under a spell in which she could never, ever awake from. The older princess found her mother in her deep slumber but her father lied. He told her it had been the queen's fault, the queen's wish in fact. He told the princess she was sleeping...but the queen never woke up. The older princess couldn't bear the absence of her mother. She left her little sister all alone in that big old house. And she never came back for her. Instead, she ran away deep into the forbidden woods. Meanwhile, the king consulted the help of a wizard. He knew soon enough that his story would be found out. The wizard promised to help him, in exchange for a magical potion of his own. This potion was different, however. It was not a potion to be _drank_, but a potion to be _used_ to his own advantage. This potion in particular opened locked worlds; secrets of the kingdom that threatened its very existence. The price was high, but the king had no choice but to accept knowing that, if he didn't, he would be exposed for the evil man that he was. He used the girl in order to try and destroy the wizard, with the help of his noble steed. The king became anxious at the increasing absence of his daughter; not out of love, but out of fear that one day she might figure out that _he_ had been the one to impose the sleeping charm. And so he told the wizard to find her, at any cost, and kill her. Meanwhile, the king's men went looking for the lost princess. The whole kingdom hopelessly tried to find her, but were unsuccessful. The lost princess had cast a spell so that no one would be able to recognise her face...but one man did. She was taken to his tower; a cold man with a wall of tangled thorns and poison ivy around his heart. The lost princess fell in love with a man who could feel nothing at all. She fooled herself into thinking that the cold man might actually possess love for her. But he didn't...and then the princess made the mistake of leaving the tower and ran helplessly into the trap of the wizard who had searched tirelessly to find her and had finally succeeded in his quest..."

Finally, he stopped speaking. It was as if his words had been spoken from a book of stories that had suddenly been closed for good. There was no hope within his story. Only a beginning and a conclusive, hopeless end.

"He killed her." My voice had been trapped since he - the _wizard_ - began speaking. It escaped my mouth in a low whisper. "He killed her and made it appear as if it had been suicide."

My heart sank to the depths of my stomach, as the memory emerged in my mind again: my mother, submerged in a scarlet pond, just a water lily lying on the surface. She had looked so delicate...so fragile. _He _had broken her. Water danced beneath my eyelids. My vision was blurred by grief and anger.

"So you were the wizard?" I exclaimed. "The wizard who made the deal with the devil."

"Oh, I never mentioned a devil, Amelia. You really weren't paying much attention the story, were you?" His tone was mock scalding. His amusement ignited a spark of crimson anger within my heart.

"He killed her and you _helped_ him! He-he broke us! He lied and you _let_ him."

"...And you left your little sister alone with a murderer." He stated, coldly. "Are we really so different?"

"I-I didn't know!" I cried. "If I'd only have known, I -"

"You'd have _what_, Amelia?" He snapped. "The fact is, you would have done _nothing_. You left her alone. You're weak. Pathetic. A coward. Your mother would have thought nothing more of you, had she have been alive to see what you did!"

His words were like burning pieces of ash, falling onto my skin and scalding it. The imprints of them would remain forever and would never fade. I was submerged by frozen water, trapped by a current I could not escape, and all the while he just watched as I drowned with those empty black holes for eyes...

"Anyhow, what's past is past," The wizard continued, briskly. "Business as usual. Your father reliably informed me that I could do whatever I wanted with you, so long as you never resurfaced in the public eye again. Perhaps your death would have been more preferable, but you're mine now...and I can do whatever I want with you."

I sank against the wall, wanting to disappear into it completely. The darkness beckoned me closer and closer, until I could barely see anything else at all.

"Please," I begged him. "Just kill me."

He stared at me with a cryptic smile.

"_Please_." I urged him, looking for any remnants of humanity and mercy within his hollow eyes. My voice was reduced to a faint whisper. "Kill me."

I was lost inside my own head; haunted by own memories that blurred into one another into one recurring nightmare. A scarlet pond. A quivering water lily. Swirling black holes. A hollow chest. His voice became distant and far away, but his words remained clear as glass.

"Come now, Miss Grey." He said, softly, pressing his frozen lips against my neck. "_Breathe_."

Any words I could possibly have uttered were lost as I finally broke down into tears.


	45. Chapter 45

**Sherlock**

The night sky had darkened long ago and, with it, the stars had been chased away to leave nothing but an empty canvas. I kept my nose pressed against the cold, dirty glass of the window as we rode to Marylebone in contemplative silence. I felt calm; oddly calm. Normally being faced with the prospect of another interraction with James Moriarty had the ability to send pinpricks of frozen fear that descended down by spine like crawling spiders. But my heart was too full to even debate what might be an appropriate way to begin a conversation with the man who I had presumed to be dead for a long, tepid year. The only thought that burned in my mind was Mia. She was like a firefly, a lonely glow, surrounded entirely by darkness. She was my only hope. The only light I had ever known. And I had let her go.

The silence had descended long ago, after I had paid the unnecessarily chatty cabbie a generous tip for agreeing not to make trivial conversation with us both. John had glanced at me with utter disbelief that was his vain attempt of masking his amusement. The cabbie himself had muttered something under his breath, offered us both a seething glare through his windshield mirror, but taken the money all the same. _People_, I thought, as the taxi finally drew to a halt by the concrete pavement, _So dull, so predictable_.

I left John standing where he was on the pavement, rifling through his coat pockets whilst settling a fitting fare with the cab driver. By now, the majority of the shops on the street were closed, save for a couple of convienience shops with flickering neon signs that bled into the puddles of rain littering the cobblestones. The bookshop, The Owl & The Pussycat, was shadowed and nondescript, like the pages of a long-forgotten novel; permeated with dust and the ghosts of cobwebs. I cast a few surreptitious glances to the windows above the shop and the windows opposite. Each were carefully darkened, but were not dark enough to hide the unmistakable shape of a figure and the silver glint of a sniper rifle. Arriving here in such an exposed manner would have been a plea for death and so John and I had taken the precaution of disguising ourselves; both of us dressed simply in businessman suits, even carrying briefcases.

"Are you sure we're not taking this a _little_ bit too far?" John had complained bitterly. "I look and feel ridiculous."

"Nonsense, John," I had told him, whilst ensuring my tie was an appropriately smart length. "In fact, this new attire _subdues_ your ridiculousness, if anything." He had simply glared at me in response.

Still, the snipers were not my primary fear. If anything, I judged them to be little more than a show. Moriarty was not the kind of man who would allow his great enemies to be killed in such a boring, _obvious_ way. I also doubted that he'd kill us before gloating about how he managed to fool us into thinking he was dead but still, it was a game and in order to win we had no choice but to play along.

"Are those _snipers_?" John asked, dubiously, appearing at my side having apparently decided an appropriate fare for the cab driver.

"Brilliantly observed, John." I said. "Keep your head down."

"You owe me twenty pounds, by the way." He hissed, matter-of-factly.

"I hardly think _now _is an appropriate time to discuss such trivialties." I snapped, in response.

We shuffled into the doorway quickly, not wanting to attract any unnecessary attention from passers-by who remained hopelessly oblivious as they walked on. Part of me was grateful for that fact, another loathing due to the fact that they were so sickeningly ignorant of the danger that surrounded them.

"So how do we get in?" John whispered, casting an anxious glance around him, overly aware of the fact that we were most probably being watched.

"With this." I produced the key from my pocket.

"A skeleton key!" John stared at in in amazement. "Where did you get that?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but it's not a skeleton key, it's a perfectly ordinary key." I tutted and fitted it inside the lock. "And under the matt, of course."

"Of course." He muttered, sarcastically.

Despite pushing the door open slowly, the tiny bells still rang to announce our arrival. Beside me, John stiffened. We stood in silence and waited. Above, there was an ominous creaking of floorboards. At last, my heart finally seemed to acknowledge some kind of fear as it began to beat very quickly. But there was nothing more, not another sound. We waited another few minutes but, still, there was nothing.

"There'll be keeping her somewhere below," I whispered. "This an old Victorian building and all Victorian buildings have cellars, unless they've been refurbished."

"How do you know they'll be keeping her in the cellar?" He stared meaningfully up at the ceiling, where we had heard the creaking of floorboards. "It sounds as if they're all up there."

"This is still a shop, John. They wouldn't keep her up _there_. Too much noise. Too much suspicion. Below, in the cellar, who is there to hear her?"

"Fair point," John remarked. "But he's bound to be down there. If not Moriarty, then his sniper bandits."

I stared at him. "Did you just refer to them as 'bandits'?"

He looked down at the ground, sheepishly. "I'm sorry, it's been a while."

I couldn't help but smirk.

"So how do we get down to the cellar?" He glanced around at the sprawling bookshelves and general clutter with distinct cyncism. "There doesn't appear to be a staircase that leads downstairs."

I took a few steps across the floorboards, finding myself in a reasonably big enough space that wasn't completely infiltrated with books. A few creaked, but as I tapped my foot against one I found it to be hollow. Bending down on my hands and knees, I traced the square of floorboards with my fingertips and found four indented grooves in the wood; hidden, but tangible all the same. Amongst the darkness, the small gold hinges caught the light. I smiled.

"Elementary, my dear Watson." I remarked, revealing the hidden hatch by opening it.

"Far too bloody clever for your own good, you are." He said, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and approval.

And so John lead the way as we lowered ourselves beneath the hatch, one step at a time, by a ladder that shook precariously with every slight movement. As we descended further and further into the darkness, with every step, it felt as if we were making our descent into a new world. I gazed up at the last sliver of light above us, the last piece of reality we had left. It was like staring through glass, reality blurred and distorted and smudged, and I realised that we were entirely seperated from the outside world. With one last look at the world we were leaving behind, I closed the door of the hatch behind us and we became encircled entirely by darkness.


	46. Chapter 46

**Mia**

_Time. It echoes, like a heartbeat against hollow wood. I fall through an artificial slumber, an endless abyss of broken dreams. Memories. I see her surrounded in a pond of her blood. A crushed flower. She has no reflection; a ghost. His eyes haunt me, pools of moss green that remind me of tangled thorns. They prick my skin, make me bleed, as they whisper:__** "She did this to us." **__Over and over and over again. Until his eyes subside, and all I can see is Beth. She clutches her knees to her chest, her eyes wide like a frightened deer's. She is wearing black. Funeral silk. She holds my father's dry, coarse spiderweb hands and stares silently into the darkness. And I want to shout out to her; I long to scream and reach into the stale air and take her hand in mine, to let her know that she is not alone._

_"Beth, listen to me..."_

_But her face is beginning to fade. She stares at me, but her eyes are gone. They are hollow pits, sunken into her cheeks. She is turning to bones._

_"Beth!" I cry out, but she is gone. _

_Dust. Rubble. Decay. Littering the floor, like ashes of the deceased._

_The voices of the dead call to me, beckon to me._

_"Not long now." A whisper, like leaves scattering across a forest floor._

_"Where am I?" I ask them._

_I turn, hopelessly, but there is no one to be seen._

_"Please," I cry out. "Please, help me. I'm lost."_

_"You're not lost," A voice calls, quietly, like the hushed sound of rain against a window. "You're dead."_

"How much of the sedative did you add?" James Moriarty demanded, urgently, staring into the shadowed gloom where the girl lay motionless.

"Enough." The Woman responded, wryly. She even had the audacity to smile.

"I distinctly told you _ten_ milligrams." He snapped. "I wasn't aware you were an imbecile, unable to conduct even the simplest of orders."

"It's much more fun when there's a dead girl to show for it."

"You fail to understand me," His voice was low. Dark. "I did not wish for her to die, not yet. We agreed to allow the Virgin and his friend to watch me kill her. There had to be a reason for them to remain, _don't you see what you've done?!_" The dregs of his words were shouted with such hatred, such intensity, that she took a few steps backwards.

"Oopsy daisy." Her light tone reflected his own voice, the kind where he would singsong the words, except he wasn't smiling now. Her poppy red lips, having blossomed into a smile, wilted.

Within moments, he had pushed her against the wall with the full force of his hands. In normal circumstances, she might have smiled nonchalantly, but she could not disguise the pain that began to infiltrate every inch of her body. She stared up at him as he towered above her and cowered, like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights.

"I'm sorry, Jim." She choked. "I-I-"

Jim smirked as he clenched her throat between his thumb and forefinger, savouring her frightened gasp. Gradually, he began to press harder and harder until she began to struggle breathing, her windpipe almost crushed from the pressure of his hands. Finally, just as her lips were beginning to turn blue, he released her, and she staggered against the wall and choked as her lungs desperately sucked in the dirty air. In a few hours' time, her neck would be stained with a row of blue-black bruises. He smiled at the thought.

"Go." He spat, dismissing her with a gesture of his hand. "Go and wait upstairs."

She did as he said without another word. He could still hear the sound of her ragged gasps of breath, even as she ascended the stairs. Alone, he walked slowly across the floorboards as they creaked beneath his feet, until he finally stood before the girl. Kneeling beside her, he checked her pulse. Stagnating. Her skin was cold, frozen to his own touch which was never warm. He stared at the tiny needlemark under the pale of her arm and smirked at how such a small, insignificant mark could affect her. He'd presumed her to be stronger, but her weakness was a flaw that every mere mortal possessed.

Soon, they would come. Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They would find the girl and, once again, the hope would be drained from their lives. His laughter was hollow, menancing, as it permeated the void of silence that had long since fallen. Soon enough, they would come. His lips curled into a smile. He had won. He would always win.

"Goodnight..." He pressed his mouth to her cold, blue lips. His breath was the touch of a ghost's against her frozen cheek. "...Miss Amelia Grey."


	47. Chapter 47

**Sherlock**

We stumbled through the darkness blindly, barely finding our way through the shadows. The air was heavy and stale, oppressing, and permeated with dust that could potentially have suffocated our lungs if we lingered for too long. We had been walking for so long - too long - that I began to fear we might get trapped here, underground in this strange place, and never get out again. But, soon enough, the darkness was broken by a dim light flickering above. It bathed the tunnel, for lack of a better word and better knowledge of what we were actually standing in, in faint red light. The effect was eerie, and I almost found myself wishing for darkness instead.

"There," I whispered, gesturing towards the very end. "A door."

My eyes had only just begun to adjust to the strange half-light, but sure enough I saw that he was correct. As always. At the very end of the darkened hallway there was a closed door. I _knew_ that Mia was behind it. But this thought did not fill me with relief or comfort. It just unsettled, disturbed, me even more.

"There'll be people in there." John hissed.

"People?"

"Yes, people." He snapped, impatiently, which I deemed a worldly achievement considering the fact he succeeded in maintaining a low whisper. "You know - his henchmen, guards, whatever. They'll be in there."

I ignored him, pressing my ear against the wall, and listened carefully for a few moments. At first I could hear nothing but the faint buzz of the broken lightbulb above and the sound of John's heavy breathing, but when I finally managed to drown those out, I heard it. Or rather, I _didn't_ hear it.

"Well?" John demanded, impatient as ever.

"There's nobody there." I said, quietly.

"You couldn't hear any voices?"

"I couldn't hear any vibrations." I answered. My voice sounded strange, distant, even to my own ears.

"Vibrations?" He stared at me.

Perhaps in normal circumstances I might have been exasperated by John's constant questioning, but now I could not even muster the energy to be irritated. All I felt was coldness.

"There are always vibrations," I explained, though my voice lacked emotion. "Through thin walls such as these, you can distinctly hear everything, no matter how hard a person is attempting to try and disguise their movements. We're standing on old floorboards that are beginning to rot. Our footsteps have caused them to creak, therefore we would hear them and they would have heard us."

John stood still, for a moment, absorbing this information. And then the thought struck him, like the cold blade of a knife, and he visibly flinched. "But what about Mia?"

I said nothing. I didn't _have_ to. The realisation registered across his face like the crashing waves of the sea. My blood was growing hot and claustrophobia gripped me, as the darkness began to feel as if it was weighing down upon us. The walls closing in.

John was the first to speak, after the long silence that had long since fallen between us. He was trying to sound confident, assured, but there was an unmistakable tremor in his voice that shook his words. "We have to look...we have to..." He took a deep breath. "_You_ have to."

I turned to him in confusion.

"One of us has to stay here." He explained. "And she needs you more than she needs me."

I was about to argue, but he did not allow me to speak.

"No, Sherlock. Don't." He did not take his eyes from mine. "She needs _you_."

I was overwhelmed, then, by guilt. Because I knew that he didn't just primarily mean the situation we had found ourselves in, but the fact that had consumed every day of our lives for the past four months. He _knew_. I think that, deep down, he had always known that I had been in love with her too. John Watson knew more about me than I knew - and would ever know - about myself.

"Stay here," I said, firmly. "Stay here and don't move. If you hear anything, anything at all, knock three times."

He nodded. "Of course."

I swallowed, hard, and turned to the door. My fingers closed around the rusty handle of the door and lingered there for a moment. _Open the door_, I told myself sternly, _you have no choice_. John remained behind me. I could hear his ragged intakes of breath. He was afraid. And so was I. But there was little time to feel afraid. Fear would have to wait. I took the deepest breath I could, allowed the stale dust-ridden air to filter through my lungs, and turned the handle.

I couldn't look, at first. I bided my time by closing the door behind me, with my back to what awaited me. I waited for a few moments. Silence. In my mind, I counted slowly to ten and only then did I turn around.

The first thing I saw was murky shadows. A fairly large room that smelt of dust and damp and forgotten memories. The lighting, again, was scarce; only the same single lightbulb suspended beneath the ceiling, flickering every so often. But it was enough to make out the figure before me.

She was hunched over, gripping her knees tightly to her chest, surrounded completely by darkness. In the little dim light that there was, only her face was visible and when I looked at it my worst fears were confirmed. My heart plummeted to the pit of my chest, shrunken and forgotten.

_Make your deductions,_ I told myself. _You must do this._

She was pressed so closely against the wall it seemed as if she wanted to disappear into it completely. Her face was stained with dirt and a thin film of sweat that trapped wisps of hair to her forehead. Judging from the mottled bruises that patterned her skin, I supposed that she had been kept there for at least a day. Perhaps even two given the fact that they must have had a significant amount of time to develop. Underneath the grime, I could see that her skin was pale. Too pale. I judged this to be a result of the lack of exposure to sunlight. My eyes were drawn to the scarlet gashes that cut each cheek...

A lump rose in my throat and refused to disappear no matter how much I tried to swallow it down.

_You have to continue. What use is crying? __**Stop it**__._

A trickle of dried blood ran from her nose to her lips, bloodying them and only enhancing the fact that they were swollen. It appeared they had hit her nose with a sharp jerk of the elbow, consequently causing even more pain than a simple punch would have. Her eyes flickered open and then shut and then open again, delirious and confused whilst trying to adjust to the dim light. It was likely that she was hallucinating; from past scientific research I had discovered that the brain often began to shut down after experiencing something traumatic. It caused the person to hallucinate or even dream just to simply cope with the pain and fear. Her breathing was slow, ragged, and irregular. Every time she inhaled, my heart would stop temporarily and would only resume its beating again when I was certain that she had exhaled again.

I looked at her and remembered how it had felt to find John that night at the swimming pool, tied up to enough explosives to blow the whole of London up and then the day Moriarty had threatened to kill every person close to me if I did not kill myself. Ferocity burned within me, blackening my soul. And then despair. Overwhelming despair at what they had done to her. And guilt. Guilt because I had not been there to stop it. Stop them.

"Mia," At that moment in time, keeping my voice soft felt like the hardest thing in the world but I somehow managed to. "Mia...it's me, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm here to help you."

"Sher...?" Her voice trailed off and evaporated into nothing. She winced as if simply trying to speak hurt, a sharp ragged breath caught in her throat.

"It's alright. Shhh. It's alright. Please don't try to speak again." My voice was thick, heavy in my mouth, and I suddenly found it extremely difficult to speak myself. Tears burnt my eyes. I had to use every single remaining inch of my willpower not to let them fall and drown out my responsibilities completely.

She said nothing more but her fingers closed around mine. I stared down at our entwined hands tangled together. We had never held hands before. It had taken _this_ for it to happen. I closed my eyes for a moment as a tear escaped, betraying myself.

"We have to go." I swallowed. "We must leave now."

"It hurts." Her voice was shaken by a strangled whimper. "Everything hurts."

"I know it hurts but I have to take you out of here." I gathered her into my arms like a broken doll. Her hand remained in mine as the frozen skin of her cheek brushed against mine. When I stared down at her, her eyes were flickering open and closed again as if she was fighting to stay concious.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. One of my tears fell onto her cheek and dampened it. "I am so sorry."


	48. Chapter 48

_Note_: Thank you so much to all of you for bothering to keep up with this and bearing with me, even when I don't update for ages! Not gonna lie, I've got pretty emotional writing about this - Reichenbach feels. Anyway, thank you again! xxx

**John**

The door opened with an ominous creak and Sherlock emerged from the darkness, carrying Mia in his arms. In the little light there was, I could see his eyes were heavy with unfallen tears. They danced across his pupils like reflections of water. All at once, my heart rose to my throat.

"Sherlock?"

He choked on a sharp intake of breath as he layed her carefully onto the cold floor.

"_Sherlock_." I raised my voice a little, with an urgency to make him hear me. He was disconnected from reality, lost entirely in his own sorrow. "Please. Please, talk to me."

"Oh God." Finally, he looked at me. His voice trembled. "Oh God, John. Tell me that she's okay."

I leant down beside her. She looked as if she was simply immersed in the depths of a deep slumber, except for the patterns of bruises that stained her skin. _Don't cry_, I told myself sharply, _just don't cry_. I fumbled for her hand to find a pulse, to find any remnant of life within her at all. Her skin felt frozen.

"John?"

I kept my fingers pressed to her wrist and mentally began to count to ten.

"John?"

"_Wait_." I snapped.

My whole body was turning to stone. I could barely feel anything at all. My heart was just a hollow empty pit that had long ago drowned in the pool of my chest. I closed my eyes, praying. _Please_. Another ten seconds. Nothing.

"Oh God." Sherlock collapsed into ragged sobs and my own vision clouded over, soon to join him.

Finally, I pressed my hand to her heart. _Please_. I kept my fingertips pressed there tightly, as my own tears began to fall. _Please_.

And then I felt it.

Life.

Her life.

Her heartbeat was slow, unsteady, but a heartbeat all the same.

"Sherlock," I choked out. "Sherlock, she's alive."

Immiediately, his own fingertips were pressed against her neck. His eyes remained tightly closed until he finally felt her pulse, as if he needed to feel it for himself to be sure that it was real.

"Oh God." He cried. "Thank God. Oh God, oh God, oh God."

It felt so strange to see Sherlock in this way and the sight of it ultimately broke my heart. To hear his shuddering intakes of breath, the lump in his throat. I couldn't bear it. I gathered her into my arms.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "You need to find him. Moriarty."

"No...no...I can't." He choked out between sobs. "John...I can't -"

"You have to." I said, keeping my voice low but firm at the same time. "She could still die, Sherlock. I have to take her out of here. And you have to confront him. You know it can only be you."

"I..." His face crumpled as he stared down at her. "I never meant to care so much."

"I know." I said, quietly.

"John," When he looked at me, I saw the shadows within his eyes. "John, I may never get the chance again but I need you to know that you're the best friend - the only friend - I've ever had."

"What do you mean?" I stared at him. "Sherlock, what on earth are you talking about?"

"If this is it," He said. "If something happens."

"If something happens?" I shook my head. "No. No. You can't leave again. Sherlock, no, I -"

"All I do is hurt people." He said, quietly. "All I do is cause pain."

"You saved me. You saved _her_."

"I _broke_ her." He snapped. "_Look_ at her, John! Look what they did to her!"

"That's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

"Isn't it?" He shook his head. "I'm going to kill Moriarty, John. And then I am going to kill myself."  
Hearing him say the words out loud...each one seemed to cut into my skin and fill my chest with empty shrapnel. My heart expanded until it felt as if it was about to burst.

"There isn't time to argue." He continued, quietly. "I don't _want_ you to argue with me, John. It will be better this time. Because you will know. And Mia will know that she can finally be safe."

I shook my head, helplessly. "You can't do this to me again."

"John, please. She's dying. You need to get her away from here."

"I can't...I can't leave you. I can't let you do this, I _won't_."

"_Please_." He took my shoulders and shook me violently, but my head remained blurred and submerged by a current of despair that I could not escape. "You have to. Don't you see? There isn't a choice anymore. Only one of us comes out of this alive; me or her. Don't you see? It was always going to be like this; ever since we found her. I'm not willing to let her die on my part, John. And that's why I have to do this..." He swallowed, hard, and his voice was reduced to a whisper. "I'm in love with her."

Our hushed voices were lost to the sounds of footsteps. Slow, at first. And then fast. Pairs of them. They were coming.

"Now, John." Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, said. "Go."

I stared down at Mia in my arms and felt the familiar sense of despair grip every bone in my body.

"Please," My voice had become too weak. I could barely muster the words. "Please, Sherlock, don't make me do this."

But he had already turned from me.

"Go." He whispered.

Sherlock Holmes. My only friend. My final goodbye. A darkened tunnel, hidden from the outside world. A broken girl in my arms. A crushed hope. A candle that had finally been blown out.

I turned from him - my best friend - and stumbled into the darkness.


	49. Chapter 49

**Sherlock**

My mind had not been clearer in a long time. I felt as if I had been trapped within a glass jar and only now had somebody lifted the lid and allowed the air to seep in. I could still hear the sounds of John's hurried footsteps echoing across the floor. Soon, he would be safe. They both would be.

Still, despite the transparency within my mind, I was afraid. I tried to calm my fleeting heart but was unsuccessful. It trembled, quivered, against my chest like a frightened bird.

I could no longer hear John's footsteps. The thought both terrified and relieved me. I knew in an instant. It was time.

The wall that stood before me was had a sloped ceiling, low enough to touch. Wooden. It had been painted expertly to fit in with the rest of the walls. I had traced the indented grooves with the tips of my fingers when I had turned from John – a distraction, to avoid the sadness within his eyes. I had always been immune to all kinds of emotion, let alone the emotion of others. But John…John had always been different. Whenever he was sad or afraid or lonely, he bore this kind of mask that resembled something of militant defiance. To anyone that did not know him as well as I did, it was an expression of equilibrium. But I could always see beneath it; it was a kind of broken pain that was somehow so much more intense than explicit pain. Doctor John Watson and I were unalike in many senses, the prime example being that he was noble, brave, and I was not. But we were alike in coping with emotion. We both built walls, towering fortresses, around our hearts but the foundations were never strong enough, and when they would finally crumble and fall, we too would fall with them. Now, looking at the masked ceiling before me, I could not help but use that very analogy to describe the forthcoming event; here, in the darkness, I was safe in my obscurity, but soon enough I would step before the light and the inevitability of it all would cause everything to fall apart.

Sure enough, it revealed itself to be another hatch. The ceiling was low enough to clamber into it easily and, soon enough, the air was infiltrated with light once again. I was back in the bookshop, never before feeling so grateful for the sight of its clutter and lingering dust. I did not think twice about where I had to go. There was no need to infer anything at all. There was only one place where he could be.

The roof.

**John**

The air is stained with the heavy scent of disinfectant and bleach. It causes my throat to ache when I breathe. The walls are painted a bright shade of yellow, something I suppose to be an attempt to cheer people up but only succeeds in fuelling my loathing. I've always hated hospitals. Ironic, considering my past profession but then again the field hospital I worked in in Afghanistan was hardly comparable to the one I currently found myself in. I closed my eyes and listened to the voices that filtered through the walls. The nurses had attempted to lower their voices to hushed whispers, but I could just about make out the majority of what they were saying.

"Severe stupor, with a possibility of Catatonia suggested. Internal bleeding, due to the severity of the bruising. Injuries were purposely inflicted. The man who found her is well-experienced within the medical field, a doctor in fact, but claims he did not witness the assaults himself. Won't respond to questioning, supplying us only with the information he deduced himself, but we can tell she's young. Possibly fifteen or sixteen years old."

"Well that much is evident. And where is the doctor that found her now?"

I opened my eyes, startled. The nurse wearing a little too much lipstick and a blank expression gestured vaguely to where I sat.

"Outside, he wouldn't remain in the waiting room. He's still in a state of disorientation."

The other nurse, older with greying hair, glanced at me through the glass. I looked away, only too late.

"We need to talk to him. It's highly suspicious how he managed to find her and yet refuses to answer any questions how."

"He won't talk to anyone."

"He might when the police become involved."

I could no longer concentrate on deciphering their words. Time passed slowly, a taunting clock. Every second was agony. Each moment that passed, my heart grew tighter against my chest. I couldn't quite believe I had actually left him alone. My unwilling did not compromise for the inevitability of his fate. I felt nausea creep into my stomach and found myself swallowing a few times in an effort to prevent myself from throwing up. My vision blurred and then restored itself. But there could be no restoration from what was going to happen, or what might have already happened.

Sherlock Holmes, my only friend in the world, was going to die.


	50. Chapter 50

**Note: **Apologies for the slightly strange chapter. Basically, Mia is in a coma-like state and this is her dream. Yeah, I was feeling pretty experimental.

**Mia**

I had fallen into a deep slumber; into darkness. I tried so hard to stay awake, but slumber stole my mind. In a moment that passed all too soon, he had held me in his arms. The warmth of his chest, the rise and fall of his breath, had lulled me into a distant lullaby that took me away from the shadows that infiltrated my dreams before. Now, the world was distant; far away. I was vaguely awake, aware of my own bones, but I couldn't move or open my eyes. There were sounds. Voices, even. But they were distorted and only blurred further when I attempted to listen to them.

In my mind, a clouded dream, I saw a night sky filled with stars; an apple orchard patterned with gold and amber leaves, a quiet moonlit sea, a field of wildflowers and daisies. These places all somehow existed at once and coincided with one another. Among them all, the far away worlds just within reach of my fingertips, the image of _him_ glowed brightly as if it were made entirely of fireflies. His eyes told stories; his body a map or an atlas, perhaps, that bore a new world. I felt my heart tremble with joy; I had never been happier.

"I love you." I told him, breathlessly. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He gazed at me in amusement and then he smiled; a smile that lit up every inch of darkness that had ever existed within myself.

"_Darling_," He said, softly. "_Don't ever leave me."_

And I had opened my mouth to utter a word, a promise, but before I could, he flickered and then faded completely; a candle that had been blown out too quickly. I stared, helplessly, all around me but he was gone.

"But you have left me!" I cried. "Please, come back! Darling, don't leave me."

But the worlds were crumbling down. The night sky became ablaze with comets and fallen stars and crimson fire. The apple orchard rotted and decayed, corrupted by smoke and lies. The sea began to crash uncontrollably against the rocks; the moon above was replaced by a black crescent that offered no light. Just fear. And, finally, the field was consumed and swallowed whole by darkness; the flowers withered and died. I was left in an empty world, surrounded by debris and rubble, completely alone. And then, suddenly, a voice.

"_Dear me, Amelia, dear me_…"

Terror infiltrated and choked my heart like black smoke. I cried out, but Sherlock was gone.

"_Once upon a time there was a powerful king, the most powerful king in all the land in fact_…"

**STOP IT.**

I shouted the words, but there was no sound. Only silence.

I saw him, then; the man himself. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile as I stared in horror. His eyes were completely black – there was no cornea, no iris, no pupil. His eyes really were black holes.

"_Dear me, Miss Grey,_" He whispered."_Dear me._"

Rivers of scarlet trickled across the ground. Blood, but not my own. I felt my heart fall through my chest. John lay still and silent, his lips cold and blue. His eyes were open, but they emitted no light. No life. I ran to him and shook him. Hard.

"John!" I shouted. "_John_!"

"_Dead_." Moriarty began to chant, a sickening, crooked smile playing across his lips. "_Dead, dead, dead, dead_!"

He raised a single finger and pointed into the air. I turned, and my heart turned to ice. Beth, my little sister, lay in a pool of her own blood. She was so small; so fragile. Her eyes were open wide, like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. A wound punctured her chest and, when I pressed my trembling fingers against the hole, I felt that her blood was still warm.

I ran, lunged, at him. I scratched at his skin with my fingernails, pounded my knuckles against his face over and over and over again, but he never moved an inch. His expression never changed; that sickening, crooked, smile never faltered. When I finally stopped, breathing heavily as my heart collided against my ribcage, I saw that I had not even made a mark.

"_Dear me, Miss Grey_." He just whispered again. "_Dear me_."

And then he extended his hand again, and pointed with his finger. Nausea churned in my stomach. Slowly, I turned.

Another figure lay lifeless, surrounded by a crimson pool, and my breath caught sharply in my throat. It was Sherlock. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent. His hair, the curls I had always longed to trace with my fingertips, was plastered to his forehead and his eyes were colourless. Drained. The constellations were gone; replaced by an empty sky. His lips were parted slightly, almost as if he was uttering a whimper. But there was no sound. There was nothing at all. I kissed every freckle, traced my fingertips against his cold skin as gently as I could, almost like how rain patters against a window when it falls. But, still, I could find no wound. I pushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered into his ear, though I knew it was helpless.

"Come back to me," I whispered. "Don't leave. Come back to me."

My eyes followed the curve of his neck, the line of his collarbone, down to his chest. And that was when I saw it. A single arrow pierced his heart; a scarlet gash. He was a bird that had been shot down, a bird that had only ever wanted to fly.

And then I began to scream.

I screamed until my throat was raw and cracked with the salt of tears. I sank to the floor and screamed until I could utter no more sound, just a whimper. I was a wolf howling silently, pleading, to an unforgiving moon. When I looked at James Moriarty again, I could not even muster anger. All I could feel was pain. Despair.

"You killed them." My voice was a hoarse whisper.

"_**You**__ killed them_." His voice was an echo.

And, despite it all, I believed him. It was my fault; it was all my fault.

"_Time to say farewell, Miss Grey_."

For once, I didn't try to escape; I allowed the darkness to descend. I was tired…I was so tired. The last words, the final words I would surely ever hear, were haunting.

"_Farewell, Miss Grey._" He whispered. "_Goodnight._"


	51. Chapter 51

**Sherlock**

He stood before a bleak concrete world, a world he had turned his back on long ago. He had strayed from the light and found solace amongst the darkness. It was hard to believe now, looking at him, that he was capable of such destruction, such devastation. The sky was filled with grey storm clouds and a thin rain had begun to fall, the air tinted with the scent of petrichor. I allowed the scent to filter through my lungs, breathing as deeply as I could. Breathing – an everyday occurrence. Oxygen - an element that surrounded us in our everyday lives. A necessity. And yet, we never really appreciated it or even took the time to consider what it might be like if it was suddenly drained from the world. Soon enough, I would not be aware of it at all.

Jim Moriarty turned, as the sounds of my footsteps echoed across the vast expanse of concrete. The wind blew heavily and relentlessly, and yet he smiled when he caught sight of me. He had not changed. His face had not altered since our last encounter. And yet _everything_ had changed. _I_ had changed.

"Good of you to join me, Mr Holmes," He announced, loudly, as if addressing an invisible audience rather than just another person. "I was just debating the law of gravity."

I offered him a tight smile, etched with sarcasm. "I was never aware you were so well-versed in science."

"Oh, you know me," He said, with mock solemnity. "I've always been rather modest."

"Your latest endeavour would suggest otherwise."

"Yes, I suppose it would really." Another smile, tinted with amusement. "You must admit, it was rather brilliant."

"Letters sealed in red wax, a helpless victim, and a whole complex of games and riddles." I tutted. "Nothing you haven't done before."

"Ah, but here is where everything changes." His eyes glittered, suddenly and menacingly. "_Here_ is where everything will really happen."

I rolled my eyes, feigning nonchalance. "Are you really so _obvious_? The fall that was never completed properly before which will be fulfilled correctly in order for me to meet my imminent death. How dull."

"I apologise profusely for your boredom, Mr Holmes," His smile never faltered. "Perhaps this will offer you some sort of entertainment."

He reached into the left pocket of his black trench coat and, from it, produced a single crumpled piece of white paper. Folded three times, I noticed, and there was a small tear. He handed it to me and I unfolded it, as the apprehension in my chest began to bloom into a garden of tangled thorns. The faded coffee stain in the right hand corner suggested age, that this paper – whatever it was – was the original copy. Of course, I was certain it would not be the only copy. This caused me to deduce that the fact he had presented me with the original was significant. The document had been created with a typewriter and the ink appeared to be the same type of ink that had been used in the letters he had sent. I took a deep breath, and then I began to read.

**CONFIDENTIAL, ACCESS ONLY TO PERSONNEL**

DOC.45M706 14/6/06

To whom all cabinet members it may concern,

A matter has come to light that threatens our existence – a matter of atrocity. The man we deem worthy of leading our country and maintain its greatness is no more than an imposter. A liar.

A police report was filed on Wednesday the 3rd of June concerning the mysterious death of Mrs Julia Grey, wife of Henry Grey. Forensics concluded Mrs Grey committed suicide at approximately 9 o'clock in the evening by using a razor blade. Mr Grey, when questioned, stated he had been at a particular conference – the Central London conference centered around the new appointment of Foreign Affairs minister Albert Ginnear, to be precise – until the time of Mrs Grey's supposed death. Upon hearing this I was skeptical, due to the fact I had been informed earlier that day by Mr Grey himself that he would not be later attending the conference. I was, of course, perturbed but suspected nothing more than perhaps a slip of the tongue or a change of heart. However, I was able to obtain the original forensics report that had later become void due to the appointment of an updated forensic analysis. The report dictated that the amount of blood that had been found in the bath tub was not entirely that of Mrs Grey's, but that a considerable amount in actuality belonged to Mr Grey. This, the report concluded, suggests that both Mr and Mrs Grey entered a conflict with one another due to the amount of blood that was shed. This, therefore, would imply that Mr Grey in fact played some role in his wife's death. The wounds from the razor blade were also deemed to be too deep to have been inflicted by Mrs Grey herself, due to the fact she would have already have passed out before reaching the such a depth. Forensics also suggested that the wounds were made after Mrs Grey had already been dead for several minutes. The report was issued by forensics specialist Dr. Alex Marcus, however when I went to confront Marcus about why the report had never been officially published, I learnt that he had been dismissed. This, naturally, was highly suspicious and I have since attempted to contact Marcus but have reached no avail. It almost appears as if Marcus had disappeared completely.

As fellow cabinet members, I urge you to take action. I circulate this document in the hope that it remains out of the knowledge of Sir Henry Grey. As for myself, I plan to confront Grey the very first thing tomorrow. I trust that the truth will be unveiled. In fact, I shall ensure it.

Signed,

**Rupert Hadlow**

**4****th**** Cabinet Minister **

**Defence Secretary**

I stopped reading. The wind felt colder, somehow, and though the sky above was permeated with clouds, the world was clear.

"Rupert Hadlow…" His name seemed to echo with the wind. "You killed him, didn't you?"

Moriarty said nothing, but I could tell that he was savouring each moment that passed. As I concentrated hard, the newspaper article appeared before my eyes. The headline: **HADLOW, SECRETARY OF DEFENCE, DIES AGED 43 OF A STRESS-INDUCED HEART ATTACK.**

"Sir Henry Grey, British prime minister, kills his wife and then manipulates the crime scene to make it appear to be suicide." I closed my eyes for a moment. "And you helped him do it, didn't you?"

He straightened his tie, and I noticed the tiny stitched, silver skulls embroidered into the black silk.

"I did indeed."

"But why?" I asked.

"Why does anyone do anything?"

"Answer the question."

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "Henry Grey was once an associate of mine; he would often carry out errands, in return for a favourable sum, however he soon began to deem himself as being a man above petty crime – traded it all for a promising political career. The night he was due to begin his first term as prime minister, he agreed to meet me and paid me a generous sum of money to ensure I wouldn't leak any undesirable information about the country's soon-to-be leading power. He also told me he never wanted to see me again…until one night, two and a half years later, when I received a phone call late at night…"

"After he'd murdered his wife." I interrupted him, matter-of-factly.

"Indeed," He continued. "It was rather nice, really, just like old times; a reunion, of some sorts. We were very thorough."

"Evidently not thorough enough, judging from the original forensics report." I said, sarcastically.

"Evidently so." He agreed, though the notion amused him rather than depleted him.

"And then Mr Grey's good old friend Mr Hadlow discovered the truth."

"He did, and issued the document you're currently holding in your hands. Document 45M706. Did you ever succeed in deciphering it?"

"The fact it stood for some sort of document was obvious, blindingly so."

"Of course, but the rest?"

I was silent.

"Dear me, Mr Holmes. How very slack." He smiled, triumphantly. "Forty five, Henry Grey's official number. He took the liberty of appointing every member of his cabinet with a random number each to use in times of confidentiality and crisis; every cabinet member was aware of the system, and each would be aware of which number belonged to whom and therefore who the document would be addressing. And 'M' – isn't it obvious?"

"Murder." I whispered.

"Good, very good." He traced his bottom lip with his tongue slowly. "And what about the rest, are you able to decipher it? Or have you really lost your touch?"

I concentrated carefully for a moment, without glancing at the paper in my hands. **706**. Rupert Hadlow had filed the document on the 14th of July…date. It was a date. The seventh of June.

"It's the date Hadlow filed the document," I answered. "The seventh of June, two thousand and six."

"_Excellent_." He offered a mock salute, his words tainted with sarcasm. "You should be very proud."

"I couldn't be further than proud." I muttered, quietly.

He pursed his lips. "Pride is overrated, Mr Holmes. I assumed by now you would have asked the condition of the girl so, from your lack of concern, I can only deduce you never really cared about her to begin with."

"I have no need to inquire about Amelia's current condition."

"I gathered," He smirked. "I watched your little friend carry her out onto the streets a few moments ago."

_So John had made it_, I thought, _thank God._

"So, ask me then!" He urged, almost with child-like petulance.

"Ask…ask you what?" I faked confusion, biding the little time I had.

"Ask me how the girl played a role in all of this."

"Her name is Amelia." I snapped, before I could stop myself. The funny little smile that flooded across his face only infuriated me further.

"Irrelevant, but the fact you call her by her name suggests some kind of emotional attachment."

"You know nothing." I said, darkly.

"Don't I?" His eyes glittered. "I know that her father, that despicable man, was afraid that she had seen too much. She ordered me to look for her, find her, said he didn't care if she was found _dead_." His voice took on a tone of mock outrage. "His own _daughter_."

I flinched, angrily. "Do not pretend to care."

"You're quite right, I don't." He agreed, matter-of-factly. "Anyway, my associates and I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for her. She was smart, really, despite her age. Hid remarkably well, considering. Until one day she got a little _too _brave and decided to venture out to her local library in broad daylight. It just so happened that an associate of mine happened to be passing by. All we had to do was wait."

"But it wasn't so simple, was it?" I was smiling, before I could help it, as the familiar fondness for her crept over my heart and refused to fade. _She had been brave; she had been so brave._ "She escaped."

"Excellent deduction, Mr Holmes. You're finally drawing the right conclusions." He answered, sharply, and the annoyance within his voice was prominent. It was clear the fact she had managed to escape burnt in his mind, infuriating and taunting him. "She fled from the hostel she was being kept in through a broken window and managed to find herself at the feet of the one and only John Watson. Convenient, really."

"You were aware of where she was the whole time," I said. "Why not just come and take her again?"

"You must know by now, Sherlock, that the obvious course of action really isn't my style. It was too good to be true, really. An excuse to embroil myself into the lives of the famous detectives Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson once again."

I thought about the walls and foundations I had built around my chest, my protection, my defence, and suddenly questioned every value I had ever held. What good was it? What good was not caring when, in the end, it only really caused yet more devastation?

I shook my head helplessly and, though I hated myself for it, tears began to burn my eyes. "We were happy." I cried. "We were happy before you. For once, couldn't you have just let me have that? One small piece of happiness?"

He smiled at me, sadly. "We don't need happiness, Sherlock – you and I, we're not like them. We don't survive off an illusion, _feed_ off it. We are not parasites, like them; we are greater. Better."

"I'm nothing like you."

"You're _exactly_ like me." His eyes flickered. "And that is why you have to die."


End file.
